Deadfall
by team.aaf
Summary: AU 6. Danger as one brother is setup and the rest find their lives are in jeopardy. Rated T.
1. Raceway

**Back with the next story. Still AU. Sorry it's been a while, I just haven't had the time to write recently. The ideas have been there, and hopefully getting better the more I've been thinking.**

**Large parts of this story are set in Greece, and well, not wanting to absolutely destroy the language with crude, automatic translators, any Greek, in general, is written in italics instead. Just image it, if you could.**

**The T rating is based on some mild, coarse language, and some violent themes that will occur later. Doubting there'll be much on the blood and gore- side though.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Thunderbirds (they belong to someone who is not me, I don't actually know who it is now) and I am not making any money from this story. None of the characters are intended to portray any living or dead person and any similarities are entirely coincidental.**

**This disclaimer applies to all chapters posted for this story.**

* * *

**Set October 2063**

**1. Raceway**

Alan Tracy flashed past in a streaky blur of scarlet-red, and ivory-white accents, flying across the start-finish line whilst rocketing from fifty miles-per-hour cornering speed to near on two hundred down the home straight. Steadily graining tyres fought to hold on to the taupe-grey tarmac, whilst the Ferrari began braking again to make the first corner of it's final lap.

The targets for the penultimate race of the season were clear; finish in front of his team-mate and rival. Achieve this, and Alan Tracy would live to fight another round at the end of season closer at the Brickyard. Come in behind Tagen Hopkins and the season long bid for the championship title was over. All or nothing.

On the rooftop terrace of the pit-lane garages, Virgil Tracy (surrounded by other racers' family, and brown business-suit clad, prospective investors) urged on his youngest brother. Stray brown wisps brushed across his forehead with the slight southerly winds, as he leant over the metal railings to get a better view, whilst golden, yellow rays highlighted his already sun-kissed face and arms.

He muttered soft encouragement under his breath, never having been the one to shout out loud and draw attention, even in a house of five boys. That was especially true when there was no chance of the person his words were aimed at, of ever hearing.

As Alan disappeared from view round the first corner, the number 82 car of his Pro-Drive Racing team-mate appeared from the final bend, his Ferrari engine roaring with barely controlled power as the season leader of the American Super-Cars series (by a mere two points) hunted down his similarly, crimson sprayed-and-painted prey.

The team cars were covered in the traditional Ferrari red; the prancing horse, large and black on the shining hood. The racer's numbers were printed in big, stunning, white outlines above the logo and ivory lines were used to devastate; accenting the curves of a car designed around the special Enzo production, which had been manufactured at the turn of the century. Very bold. Very eye-catching.

Sponsors logo's littered the side pods and the roof, jostling for space, and boasting to other teams just how popular the Manufacturers Championship winning team of the past three years was; just how unstoppable they were.

The championship had been a two-man race most of the way, with the other three top teams securing only four victories between them. The rest of the spoils had gone to the two up-and-coming drivers of P-D Racing, both of whom were tipped to be offered drives in the GP2 and F3000 series for next season, so long as they could make it that far without killing one another on track.

Behind the glossy-paged, blinking-white-lights world of motor racing, Alan Tracy and Tag Hopkins were firm friends, something much of the media couldn't believe nor waste their time turning flashing-bulbs and clicking cameras on. The pair spent nights out together pursuing gold-digging females, who they couldn't possibly afford to keep in the Versace couture they demanded; and trying to best each other on the latest video games.

For Alan, Tag was the brother-away-from-home. A temporary substitute for the family orientated madness in which he had grown up. Life on the road could be a little _too_ organised sometimes. The reciprocal was that Alan was like the brother, only child Tag had never had. Both turned to each other for help, and roughhoused a little even sometimes.

It was a strange thing for the Super-cars paddock to see; after all, racing involved _competitiveness_, which nearly always leads to envy and jealousy – not exactly the right foundations for making friends.

On track though, like all other teams, friendship was left behind; being first over the line was all that counted and right then Alan was on the way to do so. His championship bid on the line.

Downshifting viciously, the young driver slid his car round the flowing ribbon of tarmac that made up the cornering complex of the in-track section at Gateway International Raceway, Illinois, revving the V12 bio-fuel engine harshly. A flick of his eyes towards the right-hand side wing-mirror showed a looming, red Ferrari closing him down.

This last lap had been about beauty, super-smooth transitions and staying on the track. Heroic, fastest runs and breath taking almost-skids could turn into unforgivable monsters of fury in a heartbeat and spit back as hard you hit them. Alan just needed to finish, not win stunt awards.

Back up on the terrace, Virgil Tracy was attentively viewing the in-track section through the Bilby Handheld Broadcast set, that was used trackside to allow spectators to continue watching the action they wanted, _after_ it had disappeared from view. From this he was following his youngest brother's plight for the win.

Glancing across at the man's screen that was standing beside him, he saw the final sprint between his brother and Tag playing out in-sync with his own hand-held. Apparently _everyone_ was watching the two Ferrari's race for the line. All other on-track battles seemed to have been forgotten and left, dusty, on the shelf.

Audibly, excitement was growing in the stands opposite the pit garages, and looking back down to his screen, Virgil saw that Alan was about to round the final corner, but he gasped aloud, when he saw how close Tag had managed to get himself to the back of his brother's racer.

Inside the car, Alan was quietly muttering to his vehicle, urging her on, much the same as Virgil had been doing for him.

"Come on. _Come on. _We can do this. Just a little further."

In his desperation to clear up the season championship, Tagen Hopkins was pushing his car to the limit, and was right up behind Alan's rear bumper, leaving the only option as a drag to the finish. He who dared was going to win.

Everything his team manager had ever told the hot-shot, was running through Alan Tracy's head. Focussing him on the stretch of grey-black tarmac before him, and nothing else.

_Keep the car flat while cornering – meet the markers. Decrease braking into apex. Tease throttle. Forgo mid-corner speed. Make Tag wait. Accelerate hard. Straight-line exit. __Concentrate._

And then, instinctively, coming out of the sweeping bend, Alan cut his car in front of his team-mate, forcing Tag to ease off of the gas, and move off the ideal racing line just enough to allow Alan to break away – removing the benefiting slipstream and draft he'd been giving the car behind, and letting him pull away, increasing the gap to enough.

Still accelerating fiercely, Alan stormed across the line, under the chequered-flag, to take the win, whilst less than a second later, Tagen Hopkins crossed the start-finish line, to end second.

Inside his helmet, Alan yelled out, whooping and punching the air when he could spare a hand. Championship result; undecided. Next round; all to play for.

Pulling into parc fermé, Alan unfastened his seat restraints, fumbling the catch through his gloved fingers in his desperation to get out and celebrate. Beside him, Tag had stopped in the 'number two' bay, and was taking a little more time to exit his vehicle, taking off his gloves and helmet, before unpinning the netting and levering himself out of the window section.

Approaching his team-mate, and more importantly _friend_'s car, Tag forced a tight smile on to his face,

"Good race, huh, Al?"

Still with his helmet on, but gloves since forgotten on the driver's seat, Alan bear hugged the other man, slapping his shoulder in a macho, well done, commiserations kind of way.

"Yup. You got that right. I thought you were going to catch me down the home straight! That was immense, man."

Laughing slightly at the younger man's excitement, and starting to lose just a little of the frustration of taking the championship undecided to the Brickyard, Tag slapped Alan's visor down.

"Same time, new place, next week?"

Un-strapping the bulky, red and yellow, safety device, and lifting it off his head, Alan replied,

"If you want. Your death sentence though. I'm going to kick your butt again."

"Sure, Al." Rolling his eyes, the only just senior one of the pair, gently pushed his friend in the direction of the weighing room, and towards the podium area. "Come on, we've got another couple of big, gold cups to collect."

"Well, I was thinking of skipping the whole fiasco. It's not like we _need_ any more to polish exactly, Tag."

Still with a hand on his friend's shoulder, steering him in the right direction, and stopping him from veering off course, distracted, Tag laughed, before replying.

"I think P.D.R. wouldn't be too happy, if we win the races and then 'forget' to bring the silverware home. It's a little bit of wasted journey, don't you think?"

Fussing, casual clothed men, stiff collars unbuttoned, and sleeves rolled up to the elbows, handed out dry, white towels, and crisp, bottled water. Downing half a bottle in one, long drag and upending the other half of the rainbow tinted liquid upon himself, Alan rubbed his hair over to soak up some of the water, before taking the lead, and heading out to a familiar place, the wood and plastic built podium on track in front of the pit garages.

Applause, cheers and catcalls rang out across the raceway, welcoming the drivers out through a symphony of excitement and wonder, to where they stood tall and proud to receive their winnings.

Still standing above the racetrack on the pits-roof terrace, alongside those who had stayed to watch the presentation, Virgil Tracy clapped with the crowd, his chest swelling just a little as his youngest, and possibly most precociously talented brother (although it was hard to tell when you matched him up to the achievements of the next youngest Tracy) received his first place trophy, and popped open the champagne bottle, allowing the bubbly, fizzy liquid to pour out over his team-mate.

_Around the same time, Greece, Europe;_

Wispy-hot, still damp air spiralled upwards on the continuous air currents, passing up through the bright skies, and the clouds, that hung like so many white, cotton-puffs on thin, wire-y silver. The last drips of moisture on leaves, were falling down to the muddy, brown earth below, as the feverish sun began drying out the newly-fallen rain, leaving a masterpiece of tropical greens and dying reds behind.

Red roof tiles turned to two-tones as they warmed and toasted in the mid-day sun, framing the chalky, bleached, concrete walls of homes around the town.

A middle-aged man, with a sunk and waxen face scurried down a deserted street, whilst near-on everybody else hid inside their homes, avoiding the recent showers and the ardent mid-day heat.

A piece of scrunched up paper was tight in his fist, and stopping briefly he rechecked the address etched on to it, and looked up at the houses. They were all similar, three storeys high, and typically Mediterranean in appearance. Nothing to mark anyone of them out as different. _Damn._

Further into the heart of the small, rural town a Church bell rang out. Once. Twice. Two o'clock. Frustrated and knowing his time was running out, the man looked around the street again, this time noticing a pair of children who were beginning to venture back out on to the street.

Probably had school or something to be going to, but the man quietly approached them anyway. What was the worst they could do? No, actually it was probably better not to think about that. Addressing them both, he asked, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper,

"_Excuse me. Could you tell me which house is number eleven?_"

Both children started, and a fleeting look of fear, anxiety passed over their faces. Whether they were braver than most adults around the area, or just a little more naïve, it was hard to tell; but still the older looking of the pair eyed the man warily, raised a finger to their lips and hushed the man. Then they pointed towards a white house that stood behind a small, black, wooden swing-gate, and replied,

"Kakos. _Evil._"


	2. Trouble

**2. Trouble**

_Unknown location, Greece, Europe;_

He expected the inside to match the grandeur of the estate outside, the stainless, white walls, and chlorine-purified swimming pools. However, dank light filtered through the hallway, between slits in decaying, wood-slat blinds that covered the mouldy, frame-edged windows; the dark glow only just showing up the dust-cleared pathway others had taken through the maze of rooms.

Following the smear-y route, the sunken-faced man edged through cracking doorways, and cobweb lined arches. Finally he reached a room, guarded by a single, gun-toting ape of a man, who eyed him suspiciously.

"Onoma? _Name?"_

The giant specimen of the human species, growled out his speech, spitting words like so many piercing, iron splinter nails, and looking as though he wished they were. Leering down on the scrawny man approaching him, he waited for the answer, one hand running lightly along the length of the charcoal-grey, gun barrel.

The nearing man watched the movement apprehensively, before speaking up,

"_Stefanos Chatzidranias. I have an appointment with… Mr. Aspros."_

"_I see." _

The hired-muscle (one hand still on the cold, metal gun that was casually aimed at the stranger in the hallway) reached out behind him to rap smartly on the faded, wood door. It edged open a crack, and he muttered something to the person hidden behind, and was returned in rapid-fire Greek.

Not able to hear the fiercely whispered conversation, and thinking that he probably wouldn't be able to understand anyway, Stefanos edged away slightly, not liking the almost angry sounding tones that were being used.

He instinctively held his breath, muscles tensing slight on their own, his heart knowing that if he wasn't expected, that if the message of his arrival hadn't quite made it through, he'd never make it out of the building alive. These weren't the kind of people with whom you could just drop in, and share tea and scones with.

No. They were the kind of people, mothers told their children about to make sure they returned home before dark, and didn't talk to strangers.

"_You are in luck, He will see you." _

The door was pulled back, to reveal another bulky, muscle strapped man, equally as menacing as the first, hair shorn down to a business length, and shoulders filling the doorway.

"Entos. _Inside._"

_Illinois, United States of America;_

The City-Heights Restaurant was decked out in deep purple and dashing crimson, oozing class and riches. Virgil Tracy had opted to treat his brother after his latest Super-Cars win, taking him out to the local, high-rollers diner, for a meal and company.

They were seated in a secluded booth, hidden from the views of wondering public by falling drapes and tall, potted-plants. Most tables were situated similarly, only with the long, business banquet tables actually out in the open; chairs filled with raucously laughing, slightly sherry red-faced bankers and such like, hammering out deals and contracts over a Michelin starred meal.

"So, Champ, what are you dining on, tonight? Oak-smoked salmon? Goose liver?"

Sighing, and almost showing a crude gesture before remembering the suited and dressed company the establishment held, Alan replied,

"I'm not champion… _yet. _I wish all of you guys would just remember that. And _stop_ calling me 'Champ'."

Waving away his brother's annoyance as though it were a fly, hovering about on the day's air currents, Virgil answered,

"Yeah, well, this evening you can be. _Scott'_s paying."

"Scott's paying?" The young race-driver couldn't quite keep the astonishment out of his voice, just as his older brother hadn't quite managed to keep the secret he'd been sworn to.

"Uh-huh." Virgil pulled a silver-y credit card from his pocket, purposefully showing the imprinted name before twirling the plastic between his fingers, still smiling.

The smile slipped though, replaced with confusion and concern, when his youngest brother groaned, and put his head in his hands.

"What? What's up? I thought you'd help me out here, spend someone else's money with me?"

From between his hands, Alan muttered something that sounded like,

"_Please_ tell me he knows."

Honestly shocked and a little disgusted, the older man pocketed the card again, slipping it back into his dinner jacket's velvety, inside pocket.

"Of course he knows, Idiot. I'm not Gordon. I want to make it to my next birthday, if you know what I mean?"

Raising his head again from his hands, and settling back against the plush, cushioned chair, whilst casually picking up the menu, Alan smiled just a little too sweetly for the young man he was fast becoming.

"Well, I guess if the billionaire's heir really is paying…"

Shaking his head, Virgil said nothing, picking up his own red-bound list of options. It'd been Scott's idea, actually, that he made this trip in the first place.

Gordon had wanted to travel out to the States, to see Alan's final few races of the season; he alone out of his vast family knew just how close Alan was to having a successful application to the N.A.S.A. Training Programme and leaving the race circuit, to follow in the historic footsteps of both his father and John.

He wanted to see, what could possibly be the last races his only younger brother would take part in professionally.

However, his all-powerful father had vetoed the idea, saying the Gordon wasn't yet up to unnecessary, long distance travelling, and the disgruntled aquanaut, elsewhere, was finding himself stuck instead in front of a broadcast, listening to some dull, brainless commentator continue on about different fuel set-ups, completely missing the racing itself, and the _real_ excitement of race-day.

It had been just a year since an almost tragic, and nearly fatal hydrofoil accident had occurred involving the second youngest Tracy son. Whilst the redhead was physically capable of taking the trip across the Pacific, his father was perpetually anxious and jumpy these days about his well-being, something that was much to the annoyance and smouldering, chagrin of Gordon. _Especially_ when he had to sit and watch his brothers jetting off around the world, to save lives and wow the world, with International Rescue.

Nearly losing a child did that to a parent though, apparently, Kyrano had said.

So, instead, as the family had promised Alan someone would be there, Scott had suggested Virgil head out instead. He could stop by the farm in Kansas too, to check up on how everything was doing out there; _including _Grandma.

After all, Scott had reasoned just as Virgil had started up the engines on the family jet and he had jumped clear, both he and John would be back at the Island to cover any calls for International Rescue, and Gordon could always fly the desk for data feeds if their Father was needed elsewhere.

It'd only been after his wheels had left the tarmac that Virgil realised he'd totally been set-up and bribed with the offer of his brother's bank card. Scott had persuaded him so subtly to go to the mainland, that he'd forgotten how badly wrong everything had gone last time he spent time on the road with Alan.

However, a young girl stirred the middle Tracy out of his thoughts, as she approached the table and lightly coughed before speaking.

"Good Evening, sirs. My name's Jessica, and I'll be serving your table this evening. Could I get you any drinks to start with?"

Alan had already looked up from where he'd been studying the food list, and Virgil had to kick him under the table, before the youngest Tracy managed to answer the girl.

Okay. So she was pretty good-looking. All right, make that _very, _with shoulder length hair tied to one side, loose, in a ribbon, and big, dark eyes.

Waiting until drinks had been decided and requested, and the waitress was out of earshot, Virgil eyed his younger brother with a hard stare.

"Hands off, Alan." He warned firmly, his voice betraying nothing but seriousness.

Playing the innocent as ever though, the racer raised an eyebrow, up for making a game out of it all.

"I have no idea what you mean, Virgil."

"Sure, Sprout. Sure. Just leave her alone; she's like, what? Half your age."

Still acting nonchalant, off-hand, the reply was sly; like a double-edged razor blade.

"Actually I'd say she probably is _about_ my age, and well, I don't really think you're the one to be giving pep-talks on that subject. Besides, I saw her first."

Damn. Maybe he hadn't been quite as subtle as he thought he'd been when watching the girl walk away towards the kitchens.

"Didn't."

"Did, too, Brother. I saw her walking here, whilst you were still staring, blindly at your menu. What did Gordon always say when we were little?" He made a show of pretending to think hard, rapping a hand against his head a couple of times.

Sighing, Virgil shook his head.

"How can you two be ganging up on me, when you're so far apart." He paused then; trying his best to stare down a defiant, still-just-about teenager, changing tact at the same time. "He's not even here and you're going to end up seriously hurting because of him."

The obvious, absolute warning was there; subtle as a grey, baby elephant on a busy, shopping street, in Manhattan, at noon.

As always, maybe because he liked the danger or maybe because sometimes he could be a little stupid, Alan ignored his brother completely, as though he'd never said anything.

"Oh, I know. Finders, keepers."

"The moment we leave here, Alan…" Virgil growled out, before stopping as the smiling, young waitress reappeared with a tray carrying drinks.

_Greece, continuing on from earlier;_

Heavy, dark, floor-length curtains were pulled across the window roughly, blocking out light except for a sliver of silvery-white brightness that highlighted a strip of dusty, wooden floorboards in the centre of the rectangular room.

The hired-muscle prodded Stefanos in the back with the end of his gun, forcing him out into the small amount of light with a jump and anxious glance behind.

"_So you bring information, Mr. Chatzidranias?"_

A deep voice came out of nowhere, causing the visitor to squint into the darkness, as he tried to find the owner of the voice. All he could discern though was a shadow, lurking somewhere in the corner of the room, out of sight.

"_Yes. I have been researching all that I can. There are few similarities, but… there are __some__."_

The man moved in the corner, shifting his feet across the floor as he turned to look at the new comer, without ever exposing himself to the stranger.

"_Well, Mr. Chatzidranias, what are they? _Time is money, as the English would say."

His English was heavily accented, and sounded like a dusty record, pulled off the shelf and played for the first time in many, long years. Following the switch in languages, Stefanos continued in a more comfortable tongue than the pig-Greek he was struggling by in (he may have a native name, but was definitely not a local, having grown up in the outskirts of Reading, England).

"It would appear that they respond to any radio signal, so long as there is a broadcast, they will come."

"I see. And there is more?"

"A little. The larger one is always there. The smaller one, not always. Only sometimes."

The end was as abrupt as the start. Finishing as suddenly as April showers come and go.

"_Thank you, Mr. Chatzidranias. That is all. The money will be in your account before the close of the day."_

Unsure of what he was expected to do, but certain that his welcomed stay was ended, Stefanos turned to look at the armed companion, who stepped back and opened the door wide enough to omit one.

Rushing out the room, the informant didn't look back until he was out of the house and down the street. They definitely weren't as friendly as the advertisement had made out, and that house was somewhere he did not want to ever return to.

Wasn't likely to either, after all, he'd played his part. The act had begun.


	3. Travel

**Sorry for the long waits. Trying to do better. Honestly. **

**3. Travel**

_Pro-Drive Racing Pit Garage, Gateway International Raceway, Illinois;_

Freshly washed-out tarmac and a gloomy, grey sky met Virgil and Alan Tracy as they stepped out of their hired SUV round the back of the pit garage. Rainbowed, pooled water was settling on the track, leaving the surface slippery wet and patchy. High above, the last drips of the rainfall were falling off the brightly coloured Pro-Drive logo, over the rear entrance to the team's pits, cascading downwards in a waterfall of light-catching teardrops.

Thread-like, wisps of sparse fog twisted between concrete buildings and transporters, chilling the air. Virgil turned his thin jacket collar up, shielding his exposed face just a little from the biting, crisp weather, and shoved his hands a little further into his pockets, flexing his fingers every now and again to keep the heat moving, and make sure that they hadn't died and fallen off in the frigid cold that was late Illinois-autumn.

"Shame the sun couldn't last, huh?"

Alan looked over with a wry grin, as he keyed in the entry code on a data pad beside the only access door to the garage, his fingers red and slowly freezing against the numbing, icebox plastic.

"Well, we are out early morning, in the States, in October, Virge. I think that island life's turning you soft."

He threw a light punch at the older man's shoulder, just catching his target as Virgil twisted away, before turning back to press the 'enter' button on the keypad.

"I'm_not_ turning soft, Alan."

Pushing the heavy, metal door open, as the electronic bolt pulled back away from the frame, leaving it free to swing, Alan walked through. He paused, holding the door open for his brother, pretending to consider this new option.

"Nah, you're right. You're just cranky. Not enough sleep."

Following his brother through, and catching on to the ploy a touch later than he would have liked to, Virgil grinned back, mentally blaming jet lag and Alan's surprise breakfast of cold pizza, for his mental sharpness, or lack of.

"Yeah, well, at least I don't try and bring back pretty waitresses with boyfriends twice the size of me."

Game, set and match, Virgil Tracy. Or so he thought.

"Are we forgetting the last time me and you spent quality time together State-side…?"

Before the exasperating blond could continue though, a man approached the pair, saving Virgil from reliving _that_ embarrassing experience.

"Ready to head east, Kid?"

Matt Harshaw had a rogue, boyish face; like a man who was getting to act out his childhood dream and play with toy cars for a living, and a mop of brown hair that stuck up in tufts around his bulky radio-headset. Bright, green eyes lit up with a permanent smile, inviting and fiery all at the same time. Someone definitely to have on _your_ side.

"You bet, Matt. Can't wait to kick Tag's ass all the way there and back again."

The crewmember's laughter, accompanied with merriment that really reached his eyes, was infectious, leaving Alan in spates of amusement, whilst Harshaw introduced himself to Virgil.

"Hey." He held out a hand that was taken graciously, and quickly, like two friends reunited after a long break, rather than complete strangers. "I'm Matt, Alan's Race Engineer. You must be Virgil. Sorry I didn't get round to meeting you yesterday at the race. Alan said his brother was about, but I had a lot to do."

"Don't worry about it. It all looked so busy down here from the stands." He gestured about the now half-empty room.

A collection of team-clothed people were wandering about the expansive area, moving large, silver, metal crates towards the exit, where they were being loaded up on to eighteen wheelers, with the Pro-Drive logo, booming, on their sides. Elsewhere, equipment was still being stowed; cables, manuals and computer units, loaded into cases and boxes around the two, red and white Ferraris that still stood in the middle of the garage, alone.

Following the gaze of the two others present, Alan's eyes fell upon his team-mate's and his own cars.

"Why are they still here?" He jerked his thumb towards the vehicles, nodding in their direction to clarify what he was talking about a little more.

"Long story." Matt sighed, and ran a hand through his thick hair, leaving it more jagged and thorny than ever. "The trucks left without them."

Alan's eyebrows raised so high they nearly hit his hairline, his mouth opening and closing like a fish, words unable to escape. Instead Virgil asked what he had been thinking.

"How did they manage to leave the cars behind? Surely, they're, ah, a little large and important-looking to miss?"

Smiling again, any annoyance forgotten quickly, and optimism shining through, Matt continued; turning a problematic situation into another source of excitement and adventure.

"Turned out the driver left his cab for a rest stop, came back and someone had closed the rear, loading doors. He asked the nearest person if the cars had been loaded, who thought he asked if the cars were going to be loaded. Of course, he said yes, the driver thought he had his cargo, and there you go. Wham. Bam. Thank you Ma'am. He set off for Indiana."

Alan still looked staggered, astounded, but managed to find his voice this time.

"He didn't think to look, and check. Hell, didn't he _see_ them still sitting here in the garage? Didn't his truck feel too light? Gee, and we employ these people _why_?"

Laughing somewhat now, at the young driver's indignation, Matt simply said,

"Dunno. Ask Wyke. He signs the contracts. Then again, he did sign yours… Maybe he just doesn't read them first." Pausing for a moment, and glancing round the half-empty, nearly packed away set-up, Matt continued. "Anyway, some of us have some organising to do. I don't know what you guys have planned, but I think Wyke wanted a word before we leave. Departure's planned for about two o'clock this afternoon."

"Alright, Matt. I'll catch you later."

"Sure thing, Al."

Matt Harshaw left then, disappearing between stacked crates and semi-assembled computer units, chatting to others around him the whole time. His job; to keep others working, and the transportation moving.

After the race engineer had left, Virgil turned to Alan, with a puzzled look marring his Southern-State, blunt-and-rough, good looks.

"Wyke? He's your Boss, isn't he? I'm sure I've heard his name before."

Still grinning, in the after-effects of Matt's departure, Alan nodded his agreement.

Wyke Mulagen was Pro-Drive Racing's Team Principle, the man in charge of the cars, workers and big decisions. In the end it was his choice whether or not the cars pitted for fuel and tyres on lap 31 or 32; whether or not Tag or Alan got a longer first stint, or a better shot at pole position.

Forty-four years old, married with two young girls, he had a salt and pepper spotted, crop of short hair, and was in good physical shape, with a slight weather-beaten look that came from years of sitting out on a pit wall, come rain or shine. He'd started as a bottom-feeder fish, working in the garage as an engine-boy beneath one of the best in the business, and fought his way, tooth and nail, up. Bought shares in a failing team when the opportunity arose, and got an unequalled, incomparable team around him.

It was one of his children that came flying round the corner now, from between the boxes and consoles where Matt had disappeared to, all bouncing, brown curls, and big, green eyes. Lily. Sweet kid.

Her voiced enthusiasm reached the pair before she did, talking loudly and quickly. Regular fountain of enthusiasm, she was.

"Uncle Matt said you were here, Alan! Daddy said you weren't coming. I_ knew_ he wasn't telling the truth! I _knew_ you'd come today!"

The bright-eyed, lively ball of energy and spirit ran straight to the racer's arms; where she was picked up and whirled around in a circle, before being placed carefully back on the concrete flooring.

"Hey, Buttercup. How're you doing, huh? Been a couple of races since I saw you last. School's not been keeping you away, has it?"

"Yes, but now it's holidays, so Daddy says I can see the races before the snow."

The small girl then noticed Virgil standing by, and stared inquisitively, but not discretely.

"Well, we'd better make your holidays good then, huh?" Then pointing at the other man standing close by, having noticed the source of her intrigue, "This is my older brother, Virgil. Virgil, meet Buttercup, Wyke's daughter."

The seven-year old frowned for a moment before turning to Virgil; arms folded and severe look on her young face.

"My name's _not _Buttercup. It's Lily. He _always_ gets it wrong. Tag says Alan can't understand all flowers are different."

She shot Alan a look then of distain, as though he was intellectually beneath her, what with not being able to tell a lily and buttercup apart. Trying not to laugh at the indignant little girl, with her jeans rolled up to the knee and trainers with flashing lights, Virgil replied,

"Well, I can tell one flower from another, and you definitely look like a Lily to me. Alan's just hopeless. So what are you doing here, today?"

Puffing out her small chest, and raising her head a little, Lily tightened her crossed arms.

"I'm helping Daddy move the cars to the next race. I'm his _bestest_ helper."

"Ah. I can see that. I bet he couldn't do it without you."

"Nope. He needs me _and_ Beatrice."

A little confused, Virgil looked around the garage, expecting to see some scary-face doll or giant teddy-bear.

"Beatrice?"

Sighing, and feeling like she was talking to utterly brain-dead, inept people, Lily explained,

"She's my older sister, _duh_. She's out with Mommy today buying a new anorak, so that we can go to the next race. Her last one got ripped on a branch, and Daddy said it might be cold and rainy in Indi… Indian… Indian-apple-polish."

A little perplexed, for the umpteenth time that day, Virgil looked over to Alan, who mouthed _'Indianapolis' _back.

"Obviously. Sorry I didn't get it at first, Honey."

"It's _Lily_, and I've got important things to do for Daddy. See you later. Bye, Alan." And then, the bundle of happiness disappeared back from the direction she had come from, leaving in as a rapid a whirlwind of energy, as she'd arrived in.

Once again, the two brothers were alone, in the entrance to the garage.

"Looks like you've got a fan, Al."

The just-about teenager shrugged.

"Yeah, but the other one, Beatrice, loves Tag. Tells him every week she's going to marry him when she's old enough."

"Aw, disappointed, Al, that you haven't had a proposal?"

Punching his brother lightly in the stomach this time, and rolling his vivid, blue eyes skywards, Alan muttered,

"Funny, Virge. Real funny. C'mon, let's find Wyke. See what he wants with me."


	4. Fusion

**Sorry for the long wait. Again. Really am trying to do better. Hopefully will be able to this time around. ****  
**

**4. Fusion**

_Underground Laboratories, Tracy Island, somewhere in the South Pacific Ocean;_

Flicker-y, coloured lights made intricate, ever-changing, morphing patterns flare across the pale, grey concrete walls, and sound boiled out of two-piece speakers; static interfering, biting at the voices every so often, blasting the room with frozen noise and bristling pulses.

A 2-D hologram stood above a charcoal-black, plastic, round base, projecting a flat square of moving image into the area, where a young man was watching intrigued, if not a little bemused.

'_Whilst nuclear fusion is not yet a feasible energy source, maybe twenty-five or thirty years into the future, I'll be standing outside a __real__ nuclear reactor; and I don't mean one of the fission variety that are starting to come into production now. With non-renewable energy sources such as coal and oil rapidly diminishing in supplies, undoubtedly nuclear power is the cleanest alternative, and definitely the fuel of the future…'_

The picture faded away then, leaving a jumping, wavering box of dark light behind, that sat dimly illuminating the room.

Picking a battered, clear plastic case up off the desk before him, from between stained coffee-cup rings, and gnawed pencil stubs, Brain ejected an old DVD-disk and replaced it in the protective sleeve. Even now, he still enjoyed watching old, flat-screen documentaries about science that had long been and passed. That which had been swept away in the ever-moving tide of development.

He, personally, had mastered and nearly perfected fusion some years ago, installing it in the International Rescue crafts to power the huge engines; and others had not been far behind him. The first nuclear fusion reactors had been erected in the last three years, to replace some of the aging fission power stations, with more powerful, less expensive energy supplies.

Replacing the box on his cluttered workstation, Brains set about packing up the holographic projector into its hard shell casing, ready for storage. He didn't hear anyone enter the laboratories, wrapped up in his own thoughts about percentage efficiency and waste disposal of fuels. So the young genius was startled somewhat when the deep voice rumbled through the room.

"I remember movies like that from back in school. They were still saying 'just a few more years' then."

Fumbling the nylon carry-strap in his shock, the projector base crashed back down to the metal desktop, causing the shy man even more nerves and jitters.

"R… really, ah, Mr. T… Tracy? I j… just, ah, l… like to s… see how things have c… changed, or n… not."

Mistaking the shaking and increased stutter for a man thinking he'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, Jeff Tracy waved a broad hand, laughing the matter off.

"Don't worry about it, Brains. Everyone has some strange quirk that they love to research. When I was a boy, I had a folder made-up with every space mission I could get information on. Even had pullout flaps with diagrams and scaled drawings. Father thought I was mad."

"O… of course, Mr. T… Tracy." He paused then and thought about what he'd just said. "W… wait. No, I d… didn't mean to s… say I, ah, a… agreed, just t… that…"

He was cut off though, by more waved away misunderstandings, and large smiles.

"It's alright, Brains. I know what you meant."

Blushing deeply, and embarrassed to the centre, Brains hoisted the projector casing back over his shoulder, and started moving across the vast room; towards storage areas behind the thick, security doors at the far side. He called back,

"W… was there a… anything in, ah, particular you w… were needing, ah, a… assistance with, Mr. T… Tracy?"

Jeff took a couple more steps into the room, taking his time looking about at the latest, new arrivals in the labs. The most recent whirring experiments and fuming chemicals.

"Yes, Brains. There was something, actually..." Jeff trailed off though, as he looked at one of the closer pieces of instrumentation.

The conversation was looking like taking one of those long and winding routes, like ladies' small talk over morning coffee and chocolate-coated biscuits; unusual for Jeff Tracy considering his normal business-like attitude to _everything. _Suggested that things were not all okay, and that his mind was strangely elsewhere from the present time.

However, having never been cut out to be a deipnosohist, the almost-elation that surged through the young engineer when the rescue alarms began to sound out through the complex was all but obvious and very nearly quantitative. Saved him from the awkward conversation too.

The klaxons sounded out, loud as air-raid sirens, and as unmistakable also, as the pair of mismatched men headed up to the main study, above ground; to save more lives and be the secretive heroes once again.

_I-70, between IL and IN;_

Long journeys constituted luxury jets, and suave first-class travel; thin flutes of cocktailed drinks and stunning, old-classic movies. A short hop between neighbouring states meant packed-up trucks and rowdy, local music stations. Not exactly Alan Tracy's primary choice of transport.

Right now, he was sat in the back of a Team sedan, pasted in bright and intentionally eye-catching colours, listening to 'Billy and the Warblers' or something. His driver had a wickedly mean sense of humour.

Beside him, sat Virgil, humming to himself nonchalantly, half in time with the broadcast, and three-quarters off in his own world. Little or no conversation there.

Instead his delved into his jeans pocket and pulled out his comm. device, flicking the stand-by switch to check for messages.

The little screen flashed up, all colour and happiness, with a memo glaring out. '_Two un-read messages'._

Selecting the first, Alan grinned as he read the note.

'_Something to pass the time. Virge's a bore on road trips. ;-) G.T.'_

Scrolling downwards, the young racer highlighted the link attached, downloading and opening the file. Some goofy old show from Gordon's endlessly deep stack of brainless, soul destroying programmes. Something for a little later, when he was _completely_ bored senseless. Nice, all the same though.

The second message was more worrying, and pushed Gordon's gift straight from his mind. Left Alan with a lot to puzzle over, too. The text was simple;

'_Think about it.'_

But there was another attached file. A long-worded document, that left Alan in an awkward position; the holder of something, by rights, he should never of seen, never mind have been in possession of.

_Secure location, Greece, a little before;_

A large, tinted-window sedan pulled up, the dark hues hidden in the near blackness of the night. Tires crunched up the white stones underneath; splintering and shattering under the deep weight, as the car slowed to a stop, the headlights bobbing along the ground, before dimming down into nothingness.

Inside, a man sat upright against soft, creasing leather seats, a comm. device in hand, and a headset on. Subtle lights bathed the rear of the car, throwing shadows across the man inside, and the upholstery.

"_We have another informant visiting us tomorrow. Says he's called…_" The deep, gravely voice stopped then, as the man looked away checking a couple of papers. _"… Chatzidranias, Stefanos. Has information on the crafts, so the message says._"

The dark figure on the comm. screen nodded, his image blurred around the edges, purposefully distorted from the truth.

"_I see, Dimitri. Well, it's getting late. I expect another call tomorrow evening following up."_

"_Of course, Sir."_

The screen darkened then, blacking out, and the image disappearing. Turning off and pocketing the small device, the man in the back of the car flicked on the full rear-cabin lights then, and sat back to wait.

At the signal of the illumination of the rear of the vehicle, the two men seated in the front seats, had got out. One set up sentry just away from the car, scanning the quiet, suburban housing for any signs of danger; any threats.

Following a brief nod from the first man, who stood quietly, a hand softly resting on the butt of a discreetly held, cold metal gun; the second opened the Sedan's rear door, and stepped back.

"Sir."

The young man got out of the car then, stooping under the low roof to exit. Outside he stood up straighter, the image of power and magnificence, in a strange, hollow kind-of way.

Short, dark hair was reflected in deep, brown eyes; chiselled features creating a stark silhouette on the floor beside him. Only in his late twenties, fleets of childish images ghosted across his face once or twice; but youth had all but been torn from the man in his pursuit of revenge.

He'd been made from responsibility and adult-hood thrust upon a boy too early.

For this was what everything was about for Corbin Dimitri Ricketts. Cold, heartless avengement for the future that was lost. Because of _them_.

And he intended to make someone, anyone at all, pay.

_I-70, continuing on;_

Alan had always been the excitable type of child. A younger version had been into everything, exploring, intrigued. Growing up with Gordon as a playmate hadn't helped either.

So, now, it was his stillness that roused Virgil Tracy from his quiet reflection, and personal, inside recital of an eighteen century piece, to look at his youngest brother, and current companion.

"You alright, Al?"

Startled by the question, and sudden movement, Alan for just a fleeting moment looked for the entire world like a rabbit caught in the headlights of a large truck.

"Huh? Oh. No, everything's, er, great. Well almost."

Virgil threw a sceptical look across the rear of the car, but kept his mouth firmly closed. Alan had always worn his heart on his sleeve, and today, he was sure, would be no different.

"Well… I guess, not really at all."

With a smile ghosting across his face, Virgil said,

"Uh-huh. Thought as much, Buddy."

The elder of the pair twisted a little in his seat, to properly face his brother, waiting for the damn to open, and the flood to rush right on through.

"Here. Look."

Alan keyed up the last message he'd received, and handed the comm. device over.

Virgil paged downwards, once or twice re-reading a passage or two.

"I don't get it, Alan. What's the fuss?"

The teenaged racer sighed a little, then said,

"Because I'm not meant to have it, Virge. Stuff like this is meant to go through my agent."

Still puzzled, Virgil pushed onwards.

"So, forward it then, Alan. It was probably just a mistake."

"It's not that simple. If the team find out I received this, it breaks the terms of my contract. I'm not allowed to look, well talk to other teams whilst I'm under terms with Pro-Drive. It doesn't matter whether the team in question is on the grid this year, or looking to be next season, either. They can throw me out. End of."

Biting his lip a little, Virgil paused for a moment. Deciding, he said,

"We'd better find out where this has come from then."

"But…" Alan cut in, however Virgil put a hand up to silence him.

"_And_ put a call in to John, don't you think?"

The nineteen-year-old kind-of smiled, almost, then.

Often his siblings were the pain of his life. Nothing was ever private, mistakes became public mockery, and his father's limited affections had always been split in five, very different, very separate directions.

No matter what though, they had always been in his corner, ready to step in and hit a home run that would put him back in the game.

Yeah. Maybe once, every now and again, Alan Tracy was damn glad he had older brothers.


	5. Authenticity

**Heh. See, this time round I didn't keep you waiting so long. Thanks to Iniysa and Ms Hobgoblin.****  
**

**5. Authenticity**

Morning had crept in like wispy dew and gently simmering eggshells. Fragile and easily broken. Very pretty all the same, though.

Afternoon, however, had found its way with more vigour and announced its presence loudly, showing off with blistering sun and full bloom flowers. The heat had discovered life sheltering away or bathing in its glory and splendour. Until the emergency alarm went off, that was.

The tropical island paradise changed from songbird sweet, serene beauty to full scale, 'bull in a china shop', (nearly) controlled chaos, in the blink of an eye.

Outside on the pool deck events were closer to the destructive, muddled confusion end of the scale.

Scott Tracy had slipped into quiet slumber out on a lounger, laptop abandoned on the nearside table, spreadsheet still open where he'd been trying to work on TrAC invoices and paperwork. He hadn't got too far though when sleep had won out the battle of wills. Now, screaming klaxons and vibrating wristwatches woke him up in a flurry of shock and kind-of panic.

Startled, he knocked over the plastic table beside him that held the splash-proof computer. Whilst diving for the electronic mess, trying to grab hold of the laptop before it hit the floor, the ex-fighter pilot upended his lounger before hearing a sickening thud as chipboards met terracotta tile.

Damn.

That combined with the vicious swearing that followed, roused TinTin Kyrano, who'd been also been lightly dozing on an inflatable bed in the middle of the calm waters of the upper pool.

"Scott! _What_ is going on?" The young, Eurasian girl questioned, sitting up a little to fast, and needing to grab hold of the side of the inflatable to keep from upending herself into the lukewarm liquid beneath.

Growling somewhat, as he picked himself up from the splintered wood, and plastic shards on the floor, Scott replied testily,

"Emergency alarm, TinTin. Can't you hear it?"

Some years ago, the petit girl wouldn't have ventured any further in the conversation, believing it not to be within the boundaries of what was acceptable to question her father's masters. She'd learnt better though quickly, and these days, TinTin threw herself into the hectic life of Tracy Island; dined with the family, took outings with the boys, and even came up swinging when it was called upon.

The latter normally only referred to the youngest two Tracy boys however, and the around the older three she was more subdued and stepped back more often than pushed herself forwards. Some occasions though, all softness and restraint had to be thrown out the window.

So,

"Of course I can hear it, Scott. I'm not deaf. I meant…" She gestured around, "…this."

Already halfway up to the villa having retrieved the undamaged computer and left the upended table and lounger alone, Scott said without turning,

"It's what it looks like. A mess." Then stopping at the sliding glass doors, "Hey, TinTin. You couldn't be an angel and…"

Cutting the eldest Tracy son off, TinTin swung herself up and over the edge of the pool, replying,

"And clear it up?"

"Er, yeah." Said the slightly stunned pilot.

"Sure, Scott. Now go."

TinTin sighed, gathered up her towel and started to dry off. She would have sworn blindly just then that the Tracy boys caused more trouble than a class full of Kindergarteners. Were more fun to be around too, though, and she wouldn't have traded them for the world.

_Inside Tracy Villa, John Tracy's private rooms, same time;_

With Alan and Virgil on the mainland, playing with toy racers, and partying with the rich and glamorous of the world; and Gordon still not up to operational fitness, Jeff Tracy had in the end relented, and fetched his second eldest son from space.

As much as John wanted to feel that this decision had been for his benefit, to allow him more Earth-time, to give him an opportunity to be with his brothers more, he knew it wasn't. He knew this decision had been made through cold, hard need, formulated by lifeless facts and numbers.

Which was why the world found the astronaut sitting at his desktop computer, in almost darkness; thick, heavy curtains billowed out from the open balcony doors every now and again, allowing a glinting, slit of light through into the room from between the drawn material.

Pale skin glowed in computer monitor light, flickering and changing. Following a strange feeling, John pulled up the International Rescue networking, and opened a link to the stranded space station orbiting above the island. It'd been put onto automatic pilot, filtering calls through the main study in the absence of its operator.

Answering messages asking for his authorisation to be accessing the system, John smiled as the interfacing programme loaded up.

'_Welcome, John Tracy. Please input command.'_

He'd help build the supercomputer that was housed in the orbiting shell, and felt a strange kind-of attachment to it; almost akin to that of a father to a child. Anyway…

Selecting the correct keys, John put through requests to check links to all other satellites networked to the uber-system. Most of them belonged to government organisations, or public weather groups, and had been hacked into to begin with. But, well, what his father didn't know couldn't hurt _him_, right?

_Sure_, he sarcastically told himself. It'd only get him in more trouble when Jeff finally did discover what he'd been doing. Oh, well. The checks were all coming back green and glowing, until one flashed up '_error'_.

Clicking on the icon, and looking further, it turned out the orbit of a Russian news satellite had changed slightly, and the signal strength had significantly decreased as the space station looked in the wrong place for the feed. Easily fixable, and some scant five minutes later the hacked link was fully restored, and the satellite was once again listening in on the goings on far below her.

It was about then that the automatic system was tested for the first time. A desperate plea for help reached the lonely, orbiting computer then.

Possible nuclear-reactor meltdown it seemed in some European nation.

Fractions of a second after the message was received, a signal was transmitted down to Tracy Island, starting the klaxons wailing and alarms going. Alerts flashed up on the screen of John Tracy too, as he was still connected to the IR-network.

There was protocol to be followed though. Whilst he knew his father and older brother would be racing to the command desk, John Tracy remained at his workstation, and set about checking the authenticity of the message with the help of a computer known only as Five.

_Jeff Tracy's Study, Tracy Island, same time;_

The strange running pair of Jeff Tracy and Brains Hackenbacker arrived at the same time as Scott did from the pool deck, so the head of the Tracy family naturally assumed command instantly, sliding behind his desk, and entering his log on details to the desktop computer.

"Nuclear reactor problems in… Tirana, Albania. Emergency calls have been put out to the national rescue services and the United Nations Government already."

Scott edged closer to the desk, and took in the information over his father's shoulder.

"A million-plus residents in the fall-out zone. Can we play the broadcast?"

"Brains?"

Jeff pushed his chair back from the desk, and stood up to allow the engineer closer to the computer station. Brains keyed a couple of commands, and a heavy, accented foreign language filled the room, before the translator cut in over the top.

"Please… International Rescue… we need your help… the reactor core is in danger… please… there is danger of meltdown… computer system needs fixing…"

Brains backed away as the transmission cut out, and Jeff re-took his seat.

"Scott?"

"Seems like they need our help, sir. I'm not sure it's exactly clear-cut what's going on over there, but still."

Jeff Tracy rested his elbows on his desk, lacing his fingers together, thinking.

"Alright. Scott, go and get your brother. Brains, can we check the authenticity of the message? And then we need to start to shape out a plan of action."

"Yes, sir."

Scott left immediately heading up to his brother's private rooms, knowing he'd be there. Probably staying out of the way of their father, mainly.

"Mr. T… Tracy, ah, sir?"

Jeff's head snapped round immediately from where he'd been staring at the empty spot Scott had left, lost in thought.

"Yes, Brains?"

"I think m… maybe, ah, we b… best leave the w… workings of F… Five, until, ah, John gets h… here. It is p… predominantly his s… system."

"If you think it's best, Brains. Whatever you're happiest with."

Jeff was necessarily happiest with that route, but right now, with an imminent rescue approaching, he didn't need to alienate his only engineer, and resident genius.

_John Tracy's rooms, same time;_

The nuclear power station was just outside of the capital city of Tirana. A newly modernised and large, thriving city of Europe. The reactor plant though was yet to be updated, and still worked on fission, a source of power that was slowly being phased out after a number of close calls not that many years ago.

John set about prioritising; making sure the call was genuine was top of his list of things to be doing.

So he set about tracing the message backwards, finding its point of origin. A radio-communications set had been dialled into a open frequency to send the call for help, and the location of the broadcast matched the location of the nuclear power station. One box checked.

Then John ran the transmitted plea through the language filters, checking dialect and accent against stored archives of the local area. The voice passed the test, Five's applications showing the caller to have the correct features for the expected projections of that district. Box two; ticked.

However there was one final test, the astronaut wanted to run. It was pretty obvious actually. He spun round in his desk chair, and using the remote control turned on the television set in his room, and set the channel to a world news station.

Patiently he waited as the news feed scrolled round… Political events… Football scores… Celebrity news… Finally.

'_Further international news suggests that there may soon be a national crisis in the Republic of Albania, as a soon-to-be-updated nuclear-fission power station is reporting inconsistencies in data…'_

Proof of authenticity it would seem, just at the moment Scott knocked loudly on the room's door, shouting loudly,

"John? You in there. Open up."

Unfolding his long frame from the chair, the white-blond man stood and headed over to the entrance. Thumping the opening mechanism release, John stood back and to the side, predicting how his brother would barrel into his room.

"It urgent, huh, Scott?"

Turning to his brother, Scott raised his eyebrows in warning,

"Rescue call. Father thinks we should go. Nuclear…"

He stopped short though, catching sight of the television news feed in the corner of his eye.

"Oh, you've, er, seen then?"

Shutting off the broadcast, and heading back over to his computer, John nodded, and said quietly,

"Yeah. I've checked out the transmission. It seems alright."

Scott nodded then, stepping back towards the door.

"I guess the news kind-of confirms it too, huh?"

John turned off the monitor screen, and stepped towards his brother in the doorway, cocking a eyebrow.

"It would appear that way, Scott."

_Back in Jeff's study, continuing on;_

The two brothers arrived together in the study, to find their father and Brains looking over data already.

"John says the data looks good."

Jeff looked up suddenly, having not heard his sons enter the room, and then frowned. He opened his mouth to say something about John's having been on the IR network without his permission, and then thought better of it. No. He'd avoided alienating his engineer already that day; he could avoid the same with his son.

After all, he grudgingly admitted to himself, it was about time he started to trust the boy, right.


	6. T minus Zero

**6. T-minus Zero**

As more information came in about the imminent disaster out in the further reaches of Europe, it became clearer and clearer exactly what International Rescue were being asked to deal with. A computer glitch, in the control system of a nuclear power plant. Well, a _big_ computer glitch.

From the details that had been received after further communications with locals on site, it appeared that someone needed to access the software housing, deep in the station, to rectify the problem. Why local emergency services, the UNG _and_ International Rescue had been called was anyone's guess.

It could only be assumed that the workers in Tirana had presumed the worst, and suspected an impending meltdown of the core. The Thunderbirds however had promised help, and help they'd give.

Masked, untraceable calls had been put through to the United Nations Government, explaining that there would be no requirement of their services, and that everything was under control. The contact in Albania was asked to have a small evacuation zone implemented, just to be sure, and to show that something was being done for the restless people who lived there.

Jeff Tracy was still seated behind his desk, with his eldest son, Scott, stood at his side reading data over his shoulder as it came in. John had retreated back away from the central hub of activity to a quilted chair, where he sat, head bowed, drawing as little attention to himself as he could muster, whilst listening in, storing information inside.

Brains had disappeared a little while ago, down to the silos beneath the island to begin prepping the Thunderbird crafts for flight. He was still in contact with those in the study though, via a portable comm. device.

"Right, boys. Once the crafts are ready I want you, Scott, to pilot Two to the danger zone. John, I want you onboard as second crew, and support. There doesn't appear to be any need for Thunderbird One to be onsite, so there won't be a manned Mobile Control today. Understood?"

Jeff looked up from the computer monitor to his two sons, who gave affirmatives ('Yes, sir.') and nods of recognition.

"Brains?"

A slightly tinny voice squeaked through the small desk speakers,

"Yes, ah, M… Mr. Tracy?"

"I want a pod loaded for Thunderbird Two with whatever equipment you think the boys may need and that we decide upon momentarily. I want you to keep this line open as well, to input on the discussion for a plan of action."

"Yes, s…sir."

Jeff looked around at his two gathered sons, then steepled his fingers on the desk, and began.

"Boys, it looks as though we're going out to give technical support this time, rather than the usual physical presence we are used to. However, safety is paramount. I want both of you wearing radiation suits before you even go near the nuclear reactor. Brains, can you make sure the protective equipment is in the pod?"

The speaker crackled back into life.

"A… already done, ah, Mr. Tracy."

"Good. Then back to the execution of this rescue."

The three men sat around in the study for near on twenty-five minutes as a plan was battered out, like a metal-welder hammering dents out of a car front wing. Whilst deep below, Brains had pieces of equipment loaded by robotics into a pod, ready for Thunderbird Two to be lowered down onto it.

Finally it was decided how things would run; Scott and John would go into the power station, with the latter taking lead for the electronics based work. They'd approach the computer system housing, fix the broken programme, test the system, and leave Albania with a safe nuclear reactor, and the UNG with a recommendation that the country's power network updates were increased in priority.

Nice and simple, as things went.

"Right, then. Brains, is everything ready down there?"

There was a pause before the reply came, loud and clear.

"Yes, T… Thunderbird Two is, ah, r… ready to launch. I'm, ah, just c… coming back up to the, ah, s… study now, in fact."

"Right then. Scott, John, you'd better get down to the silo. I'll call the officials in Tirana, and give them an update on our ETA."

"F.A.B."

The brothers stood then, and surprisingly both headed over to the separate access stairway down to the craft that was waiting patiently below, like a trussed up mule. Jeff never noticed the strangeness of the joint direction as he was already back on the comm. talking to their contact on the ground. John did though.

Waiting until they'd passed through the ID scanner at the doorway, John cocked an eyebrow at his oldest brother, who'd slowed to practically crawling speeds, and was turning towards him.

"What? Why are you looking at me like that, and why didn't you take the elevator?"

Scott slowed even more then, edging down step-by-step as though any one were likely to open up and swallow him whole. He opened his mouth, then shook his head and closed it.

"That's a good impression of a goldfish, you know, but it hasn't told me anything that I didn't know before."

Scott shook his head again.

"It doesn't matter, John. It's nothing. Felt like the exercise."

"Uh-huh. Sure."

Scowling a little, Scott shrugged.

"If you really want to know, I just wanted to make sure you were alright with this. I mean it's not like you get to make many outings, is it? Normally you're stuck up in Five."

John kind-of smiled then. Yeah, count on Scott to spend time worrying about the trivial stuff, and only half the big picture. That is, until you reach a rescue zone, or something, and then it was_everything_ he worried about.

"I'm fine, Scott. If I wasn't… If I'm not, I'll say. I promise."

The pair stayed fixed to that point in time for a moment, two pairs of strikingly blue eyes boring into each other, before one looked away.

"Alright."

Scott nodded, needing to believe his brother, so that he could concentrate on other (not necessarily more important) matters, like Tirana.

_The Strand Hotel, Indiana, Virgil Tracy's Room;_

They'd waited until inside the safety of the rented room, behind a locked door, and drawn curtains. Worried of prying ears, the brothers had decided to halt their conversations in the car, after a number of almost-discreet glances from the driver in the rear-view mirror had alerted them to the insecurities of the vehicle.

So, after politely declining the offer of joining Tagen Hopkins, Matt Harshaw, and a number of other garage hands for a meal, Alan and Virgil Tracy had checked in, and retired to their rooms.

"So, what now?"

Alan paced quietly across the room, brushing against velvety chairs, and treading plush, threaded carpet.

"Give me your cell. I need the number."

The moment Alan had told him how much trouble this message could get him into, Virgil had been looking for something to trip the sender up with, and to begin with he'd over looked the most obvious gift, it being that straight forward. He'd noticed it though after a moment, the present that had all but been wrapped up with a big, red bow for them. The sender had left their transmitting number visible.

Well, either it was a mistake, or a planned decoy.

Either way, Virgil seated himself in front of the room provided comm. device, and held out his hand for the small, electronic machine. They needed to know. At the same time he flicked the set up to 'voice only'. No need to give the game away just yet if they could help it.

His younger brother slapped the handheld down in his palm, the message already brought up, ready.

"Right. I'm going to call this number, see who answers. If it's a personal number, I'll say I got a wrong number, and hopefully get a name at the same time, and a starting point."

Alan shifted some local fliers off the edge of the desk next to his brother, and sat on the end of the beech-wood furnishing.

"And if it's some corporate secretary?"

Virgil Tracy was not the sibling that you'd go to if you needed cunning, and slyness. That was when you called on Gordon, the Master of all things Secretive, or maybe John, who seemed to be able to go under the radar often enough. However,

"Then we play them. See how far we can get, how much information they'll give away."

So then, Virgil punched in the number that the message had been sent from, and waited as it connected.

_Thunderbird Two's hanger, continuing on;_

Scott and John entered the behemoth's vast cockpit together, through the back access gantry, and coded-keypad doors.

Scott went straight to the pilot's chair, settling himself in, and activating the onboard computers. There he checked over communications links, and the such like. John detoured, walking around the other consoles a bit, re-familiarising himself just a little with the machinery in person (simulators were all well and good, but not exactly the same as actually being somewhere), before joining Scott at the front, and strapping himself into the co-pilot seat.

"We set?"

Scott looked over, away from the flashing, smart glass computer screen, towards his brother.

"Nearly. Can you finish the authorisation of engine start-up? I'll radio through to base, and get this show started."

"Sure thing, Scott."

John transferred the programme that had been running in front of Scott, over to his workspace, and continued operating through it. He finished the set up faster than his brother would have, too; but that tended to happen when you'd half written the coding and set most of the parameters.

Meanwhile, Scott twisted the comm. dial round to face the island's frequency, and initiated contact.

"Thunderbird Two, to Base."

The radio twitched, and burst static for a moment as the connection was made, then,

"Thunderbird Two, this is Base receiving. Are you ready to commence launch procedure?"

"Affirmative. Lowering main frame down to Pod now."

"F.A.B."

Looking over to John first, who nodded and confirmed the aircraft was ready, Scott keyed in the commands to lower the struts holding the huge craft up over the equipment Pods.

Motors began whirring into life, running cogs and pulleys that controlled the motion. The view out of the front windshield jolted and bounced as the legs began to retract, and the main framework settled over the pod section below.

"Turning on holding clamps."

Lights across the control boards lit up, flashing from red, to orange, to green in seconds.

"Clamps are good."

With the pod in place, the cliff side lowered out of sight, and Thunderbird Two emerged outside, running along the vast tracks inlaid in the hidden runway. Sunlight reflected off the hull plates, throwing everything into green-ish shadows, whilst small animals scurried away from the deafening noise, and birds took flight across the island vegetation.

The nuclear powered engines began building up to maximum power, going from ear-splitting whine, to earthquake-starting roar, in a flash. Inside the cockpit, Scott held the powerful monster back, his hands holding the controls steady and in place. At the same time, John gave the instruments one final check, confirming all green lights, and ready equipment.

"Base, this is Thunderbird Two requesting permission to launch."

There was a pause as those back inside the villa checked the skies overhead, on radar and camera.

"Thunderbird Two, this is Base. The airspace is clear; you have permission to launch. Godspeed, and good luck, boys."

"F.A.B."

Then Scott went to full throttle, releasing the built up power, forcing the craft upwards into the air. Both ex-fighter pilot and astronaut were forced backwards into their seats, pulling G's and gut-twisting forces.

Then as suddenly as it had begun, the dramatic ascent ended, and the pilot levelled off the craft, thousands of feet up.

"You alright, John?"

Scott grinned over at his co-pilot, who was looking more like he'd rather gnaw off his own arm than go through that again in a hurry. However, take-offs such as that one were a little like going to the dentist; it had to be done, and you sort-of got used to it.

"Of course. You?"

"_That_ is what I live for, Johnny."

"Yeah, I noticed. The smirk kind of, almost gave it away."

Scott leaned over, and punched his younger brother on the arm, in an affectionate, '_shut the hell up_' way.

Trimming the computer adjustments and confirming the set course, the giant, green 'bird banked northwards, and set off on it's arcing path towards Europe, and a rescue.


	7. Brothers

**7. Brothers**

_Room 406, The Strand Hotel;_

Virgil Tracy was sat before a comm. unit in a plush hotel suite, somewhere fairly central in Indiana. His youngest brother was perched anxiously on the side of the desk, throwing worried glances his way every now and again.

Neither were in particularly smart clothes, having spent most of the day travelling between states; comfortable jeans and tees had been the order of the day. Alan, even, still wore his team-shirt, all bright colours and advertising, which was required dress when on Pro-Drive business.

It wasn't important though how they were outfitted, as special attention had been paid to ensure the communications equipment had been rigged to '_Voice Only'_.

The plasma-screen flourished twisting graphics whilst the connection was made, and played out soft, creamy music.

The hook-up of the phone lines occurred abruptly, the system buzzing with pent up anticipation and possibilities. The link stuttered and rippled a few times before settling on the image of a young, quite beautiful girl.

"Hello. Mr. Lanning's line. How c'n I help?"

Tawny strips of sunset pressed between cracks of a wooden blind drawn across a window, set behind the girl's image. The gentle light accentuated rosy cheeks, and cherry-red lips. She appeared to have forgotten though that the caller could see her broadcasted self, as she pushed chestnut bangs out of her eyes, and adjusted a wad of pink gum in her mouth.

Virgil froze then, a deer caught in the crosshairs. Okay. So maybe he hadn't quite thought this through enough.

The girl frowned at her monitor consequently, and reached out to tap the fascia; silver bangles jingling on her wrist, and hair falling back in front of her chocolate eyes.

"Hello?"

Alan nudged Virgil's arm, signalling fiercely towards the active screen in front of them.

"Go on." He whispered urgently.

Nodding, said Virgil,

"Er, hi. Could I ask who I'm speaking with, please?"

The girl settled back against her plastic chair then, a ghost of a smile playing across her face. At least it wasn't another sales call; she'd spent all afternoon turning away men with slicked back hair, and tailored suits.

"Sure. Christine Harris, personal assistant of Mr. Richard Lanning. An', you are?"

"Ah…" Virgil halted again, glancing franticly about the hotel room, looking for inspiration, and mumbling as he did. "…Michael…" His eye caught a flier for a state park. "O'Bannon. Um, is Mr. Lanning there?"

He saw through the vid-screen, the girl pick up a black stylus, and scratch something down on a data pad beside her, biting her lower lip as she concentrated on the small device.

"I'm sorry, sir, he's not here righ' now. He's gone home for the evening. C'n I take a message for you?"

Alan shook his head beside off to the side; after all what were they meant to say. Virgil took the unsubtle hint, and continued.

"No, it's fine, thanks. Could you possibly tell me when he'll next be back in the office?"

Christine jabbed the data pad then, and scrolled across its little screen, lazily dragging the stylus up and down the electronic pages.

"He should be in tomorrow afternoon… around two."

"Thanks. I'll call back then, if that's okay?"

Alan fixed a puzzled look on his brother, who merely shook his head. He'd explain later, when there wasn't someone there to listen in. Playing with her hair again, the assistant noted the details down, and said,

" 'Course, sir. Thanks."

The view went black then, before loading the options menu back up. Switching the console off, Virgil turned to his brother, smiling. Alan though, looked thunderous.

Gesturing broadly, and nearly yelling, Alan raged,

"What were doing saying you'd call back, huh? What are you going to do; just ask if he'd kindly take back his offer and not mention it to anyone?"

The young racer stood up, marching positively away from his brother towards the dresser, where he paused, staring at the image of himself, red-faced and full of anger.

"Of course not, Alan. I just thought it was bit weird if I called, and then didn't leave a message, or say I'd phone back. That's all. Grandma did try and teach us manners, if you remember."

"All too well." The teenager muttered under his breath, too quiet for his brother to hear.

None the wiser, Virgil got up then too, walking over to his brother, squeezing his shoulder tightly; the closest he could get to expressing emotion and being a Tracy.

His younger brother began to shake then, chewing his lower lip to smother any noise. A slither concerned, Virgil knelt down to look up into his younger brother's bowed face, which turned out to be crimson with stifled laughter.

"Michael O'Bannon. _O'Bannon_. C'mon, Virge, seriously. What's that from? A composer? An artist?"

Blushing somewhat, Virgil pushed back to sit on the floor, leaning up against the leg of the wooden dresser. Sighing, he said,

"Actually, it's, ah, on the front one of those brochures." He gestured roughly back towards the desk and comm. unit. "I think it's a state park."

Alan raised an eyebrow in his direction before both exploded in amusement, sniggering and chortling. Quieting suddenly however, Alan studied his older brother, weighing things up in his mind. Then, in a barely audible voice, he said,

"Thanks. For, you know."

Smiling in return, and reaching up to ruffle blond hair in an affectionate way, Virgil replied,

"Not a problem, Allie. I know I'm not who you'd choose to be with you in this, but, I'll see it through. Besides, in the morning we'll call John, now we've got a name."

Yeah, when all else failed call in the uber-hacker, and see what he could dig up. Hopefully there wouldn't be any hidden skeletons this time.

_Thunderbird Two, approaching Tirana, Albania;_

"So, um, how are you finding being back earth-side, Johnny?"

Scott's attempted stab at conversation seemingly went unnoticed as his quiet brother sat at the flight console before him. Some time ago, just after they'd launched, John had produced a pocketed memory drive, and been loading something onto the onboard processing system. Since then he'd sat silently, working on something. Scott had thought about asking, but his questions probably would have gone unnoticed anyway. John could be like that sometimes, when he became focused on something.

However,

"Hot. And unpredictable."

His older brother looked up suddenly, the answer unexpected, in multiple directions. But it was an opening anyway.

"Yeah. The bitch can be like that sometimes. But she'll warm to you, honest."

John had never quite been happy with his surroundings, be they Kansas, the Island, or here, since their mother… well, since a long time ago. He'd always liked routine, normality; which was maybe why he enjoyed the stars so much. They were always there, and always would be (unless he lived for another hundred million years or so, at any rate, and then they might change around a fair bit).

"It's the warming I _don't_ like. And I doubt it. Never liked my company much."

To Scott, it appeared that sometimes you just had to keep knocking on different doors to get through to his little brother. Once you found one that was unlocked though… Well, it was worth it.

"I don't know. You're still here, right?"

John glanced up then, looking through amethyst-coloured eyes at his brother. Scott was broad shouldered, with dark hair and dashing good looks; had girls swooning at his feet with a single look (not that he knew how to handle them much better than John). He, however, was very different. From a glance no one would have marked the handsome fighter pilot as the brother of the slim, withdrawn astronaut. Yet, family they were.

"Right."

And that settled it. The Earth didn't hate John, as he was still alive, no matter how much they appeared to disagree. And John, well… John was adapting as best he could.

Glancing over at his co-pilot, Scott figured now was as good a time as any to ask the question that had been bothering him since the flight had started, so,

"John? What is that you're doing?"

The blond man turned away again, hiding behind long-ish hair, and secrecy. Okay, so maybe not such a great time. John began closing down windows that had been open, rapidly saving and shutting down files that had been up on his display.

"Nothing, really."

Sure, looked like nothing too, with all the frantic cover up, and hiding. So Scott tried again,

"Come on, John. I know you better than that. What's going on?"

The younger man cautiously ceased shutting down the system, and subconsciously intertwined his fingers, lacing them together and pulling them apart continually. Like his father (though he'd never have admitted how similar they were in some ways), John thought better with something in his hands, and when nothing was easily to hand, he was restless.

"I was setting up a 'hot-wired' connection to Five's computers. The system on board hasn't nearly enough processing power if we need to run any broad searches, and any other applications at the same time. It's like a…" He searched for the right word, to explain it to someone else, less familiar with computers and hardware. "…a temporary upgrade for Two."

Scott nodded slowly; working to understand what John had been doing, before saying anything. When he thought he'd figured it out, he spoke again.

"Sounds like a good idea to me, John. It makes a lot of sense. Can I ask though, why the hiding?"

When the five brothers had been much younger they been summoned to Tracy Island together, to hear out their father's plans and make a new home away from Kansas. That same visit, Jeff Tracy had alluded to the fact that he knew about John's extra-curricular, _hacking_ activities, and although Scott had never asked, he suspected their father had told John to stay away from his illegal exploits in a private conversation.

Now, the eldest brother knew John hadn't completely complied with that rule (if it had ever actually been made) as Five used world weather satellites and orbiting news stations to gain information, along with a few other, much more blacklist servers. But, maybe, this was more public, more risky for the computer genius, and he was much more likely to be caught out.

John however, sighed a little, deciding it'd probably all be found in the end anyway.

"Just _he_ doesn't like me messing around with the I.R. network. Don't know what he thinks I'm going to do. And well, it's not like it's hard to trace what I'm doing; Brains will work it out in a moment. _He_'s not going to be happy."

It wasn't hard to guess who '_he_' was, and Scott felt a pang of empathy for his brother. After all, yeah, he was right; their father wasn't going to take too kindly to his 'work'. Helpful as it was.

"Well, when it comes up, we'll straighten something out, okay? I'll say I asked you to look at increasing the running speed, _or something_. We'll figure it out, John. Promise."

For whatever reason, John believed right then that Scott could wholly take care of the situation. Maybe the feeling was borne from years of Scott taking care of four younger brothers' problems and worries. Maybe that was why he was so convincing when he said that.

"Okay." Unknowingly echoing his youngest brother, somewhere else in the world, John continued, in a lowered, quiet voice. "Thanks, Scott."

And Scott too, as Virgil did, shrugged it off.

"Anytime. It's what I'm here for."

John however, unlike Alan, pressed further, needing to know himself that Scott really understood how much it meant, even if he couldn't properly put his emotions into words to express his feelings. It wasn't often that John wanted people to know how he felt, and when he did, it was usually important.

"Really, Scotty. I mean it. Thanks."

This time, Scott Tracy looked over properly, briefly reaching out to clasp John's shoulder for a short moment.

They say actions speak louder than words; and right then, in the cockpit of Thunderbird Two as it breached Albanian airspace, they really did for two young men and brothers.

That was, until the frosted-glass-precious moment was broken, by warning alarms and flashing lights. Something, or someone, had a target lock on their aircraft.


	8. Before

**The most factually inaccurate, awful chapter... Ever. All I can do is apologise a lot, and, um, I will come back and edit- but right now this has taken so much of my time and energy, I'm unable to do any more to it. Sorry, again.  
**

**8. Before**

_Some years ago, before the outset of International Rescue;_

It was the fourth time Scott ever flew out with the United States Air Force that he experienced for the first time gut-wrenching, _real _fear for not only himself but also team mates, friends around him.

He'd been in situations before, where honest-to-God, concern for others had been present; but there had never been the actual terror and heart stopping panic that they might actually lose their lives because of goings-on around them.

A graduate of the USAF Academy, with a degree safely under his belt, and a gold 2nd Lieutenant bar on his uniform, Scott had been deployed almost immediately from training to Misawa AFB, Japan, to join up with a unit already stationed out there. However, he'd been given ten days vacation before he left for far off countries.

The sun had slowly dripped under the horizon, on the newly commissioned officer's last night of leave, bathing his father's study balcony in crimson shades of waning daylight, and long shadows.

An ex-Air Force pilot himself; Jeff Tracy had summoned Scott to his office, for a talk, and a glass of scotch.

With the proposed drink in hand, and background music played out by bird's evening song, he'd said,

"Misawa, then? I'd thought you might have stayed within the States for the first few months at least. Things must have changed since my day, Scott."

"Indeed, sir. They have." Scott nodded his agreement, sipping a little more from his glass, before continuing. "Those selected for Advanced Officer Training at the Academy, including myself..." The young man stood a little straighter then. "… often get to travel overseas earlier."

His class of cadets had been told it was to test their resolve, and to help them get a leg up on the 'rank-ladder' more rapidly.

In truth, recent years had seen many USAF officers leaving the service, pursuing better pay with the seductive United Nations Armed Forces, or better working hours with private businessmen and their personal, luxury crafts. The loss of so many personnel had left the US Air Force with no choice but to select the best of the Academy's cadets, and fast track them to leadership roles.

So, it was at 0630 hours, JST (nine hours ahead of Zulu time), a few days after that talk, as the sunlight was just beginning to edge over the horizon and catch the air in a thousand different hues of gold, that Scott Tracy had found himself striding across the damp, charcoal-black tarmac towards his F-52B6 fighter jet, out in northern Japan.

From here his flight team flew out to the North/South Korea border for reconnaissance work; usually with nothing more to report than a dazzling squadron of red-crowned cranes and the odd musk deer. Sometimes there was a rare military patrol hiking on foot across the mountains, but with the area having relinquished its demilitarised status a few years ago, they were not out of place, nor breaking any U.N.G. rules, warranting little attention.

Japan was experiencing a wet few months, so it was out in the drizzling damp, and bristling cold that Lieutenant Tracy stood. His thin, nylon flight suit did little to ease the weather's biting edge, but after all, the rest of the flight team was experiencing the same, and none of them were complaining.

So far the team's patrols had been peaceful enough; another of the Air Base's squadrons had reported increased activity over the west-side of the border, but units stationed in the country had reported nothing of significance after the information was passed across, saying they had all the bases covered, so it was another recon trip for 13th Fighter Squadron.

"All this flying seems a bit pointless, huh? Wouldn't mind heading out somewhere more exciting, _and_ warmer for a bit, eh?"

Captain Mason had ambled over to where Scott stood waiting, as Flight Engineers finished prepping his craft for flight. There he casually leaned up against the plane's curving underside, sheltering a little from the cold sheets of rain.

Paul Mason was Scott's senior in age and rank, with a movie-style attitude to the Air Force (all heroes and barrel-rolls), and a wife and child back home in Atlanta.

Friends in and out of the air, they were both somewhat less than well mannered towards each other.

"Nah. Today is the day when I shoot down twenty, no… thirty rebel fighters who've been building a secret army out in the mountains, _and _save your sorry ass from certain death, _Captain._"

Mason snorted with laughter, shaking his head, and dripping splashes of rainwater all over his black boots. Seeing engineers dropping down from the wings of his own jet, he said,

"Sure, Tracy. When pigs fly, that is." Nodding towards the junior officer's aircraft, as his tech-team jumped down from the canopy too, he left with a jaunty, mock salute. "See you in the air, Kid."

Pre-flight checks, and a few communications later, eight USAF aircrafts took to the sky, burning the air behind with hot exhaust fumes, and scampering exits from the runway.

Together, in arrow-formation, the team flew towards Korea, soaring above white cresting waves, and rolling surf.

Back in the coffee and cigarette smelling mess room, older pilots would boast to younger, new recruits about how low and how close they'd gotten to dipping a wing into the deep waters, before pulling back and rocketing upwards. In his head, Scott was there right alongside them, feeling the adrenalin race through him, as one of the best aircrafts in the world was pushed to its breaking point; in reality, he scoffed along with the rest of the listeners, sure the storyteller would have lost their wings by now if it were true, or even possible.

Anyhow, it was especially mornings like this, with milky, yellow morning-light reflecting up off the peacefully still, empty waters that Scott wished he could test the limits of the skies, and technology.

Some twenty minutes after take-off the team flew over the border of North Korea, leaving washing swells behind on the beach, and heading down towards the border.

And, it was then that it happened.

Most of the following events that day had blurred in Scott's memory through time, and not _wanting_ to remember. The rest, played out like a frightening movie scene.

He'd followed orders to the letter, as warnings had come of hostiles below, hidden in the rocky terrain of the foothills. The rest of the flight team had too.

They'd gone on the defensive, whilst trying to locate the hidden assailants, yet, still, somehow, one of the planes had been hit by a launched missile. The tail end had exploded in fiery red and burning tangerine, before the flames engulf the rest, surging forwards along the frame.

Scott, and others, had been left to watch helpless as the jet plummeted downwards, and no parachute billowed open.

(Incidentally, though it was no consolation to the family when they were later told, the path of the missile was tracked then, and a grouping of large boulders suddenly came under ferocious, unforgiving fire. A soon after sweep of the area by foot patrols, revealed that all traces of the offending soldiers had disappeared.)

The remaining pilots of the squadron left the area afterwards, acting upon orders, though not before calling for a ground retrieval team. A completely risen sun, and the last dregs of rain found them returning to Misawa AFB with heavy hearts, and a shared, unshakable feeling that they could have done more.

_Present time, aboard Thunderbird Two;_

There are some lessons learned in life that never quite escape and become lost. They wait, lurking in the darkest, most cobwebbed vaults of the mind, for their moment to resurface; shining (or destroying) just a little more than last time.

They parallel the boy-scout first aid, waded through as a pre-teen, and forgotten in its entirety, until someone's lying there fated and passing. Then, swiftly and unexpected, knowledge returns; drenching consciousness and thoughts like the first showers of spring.

And that was what it was like for Scott Tracy in the cockpit of Thunderbird Two, as warning alarms pierced the air, and the target's lock-on held.

Since his first encounter with the mortality of Air Force pilots, he'd willingly entered many more dogfights; blazing across the sky in subdued greys and greens, a beacon of hope for the damned and deprived, none the less. He'd received a medal for valour too, but that wasn't something that was spoken about very much anymore. Scott would rather have forgotten the whole damn mess, and have let it lie in peace.

Yet, it was his first experience of the reality of the military that returned to him now, for whatever reason. It seemed recollections of watching the destroyed carcass of a F-52B6 fall to Earth could never be that well hidden and buried beneath memories.

Turned out, his instincts were the same now as they were then, too.

Swearing fiercely, Scott yelled out to his brother,

"John, can you…?"

He was cut off however, by a brisk, and concise,

"Yeah. I'm on it."

Leaving the younger rescuer to find the source of the danger, and do what he could with it, Scott banked the giant craft sharply left, pulling up at the same time. The odd loose pencil, and sheet of paper, slid across the floor of the cockpit, rolling gently to a stop against the opposite consoles.

Still, the warnings came, and the control board lights flashed, as though the pilot hadn't yet realised their obvious predicament.

The giant behemoth wasn't the most agile of crafts ever built, nor one meant for that much speed; but the movement was enough to shake off the potential missile launch, and to get the brothers out of the crosshairs.

"John?"

The astronaut had been focussing very much on the computer consoles, scanning the area below, trying to follow the targeting to find those behind the almost-attack.

"I don't know, Scott. The routing leads to nothing. There isn't anyone there."

"Huh?"

Scott didn't look over; still busy pulling Two back around to face Tirana, ready to go if the threat was definitely gone. John looked up at his brother though, shrugging at the confused tone of his voice.

"Maybe it was a glitch in Two's system. Maybe there wasn't anything there."

Scott, as always, read between the lines. He'd been able to see what his brothers _didn't_ say since they'd all been young.

"But you don't believe that, do you, John?"

John bowed his head, hiding behind long-ish, blond hair that swept down in front of his face. He replied, quietly, after a long moments thought,

"No. I don't."

Which left them in a predicament, did they return and risk being shot at again, or leave those who may need help?

"I think we need to call, Dad."

John nodded but said nothing; he knew Scott's way of doing things when he thought he was losing control of a situation. He'd suggest ideas, in rapid fire, then select the best option, and act upon it himself. Anyone else who was present learnt quickly to leave him to it.

However, it was just as the vid-comm. connected, and Jeff Tracy began to bark across the screen, asking what the hell was going on, that another curveball hit.

John quietly attracted his older sibling's attention, intentionally not making eye contact with his father's imposing image.

"Scott? I think you need to see this."

"Huh? What?"

A couple of keystrokes brought a web page up on the aircraft's smart glass, large and booming, whilst back on Tracy Island the same view materialised on Jeff's desktop computer.

"The scanners on Five found this. It's just been posted."

A large, black print title read '_A Message for International Rescue'_, and below was an audio link.

"Play it." Jeff growled over the communications link. So, John did.

'_Good morning, or afternoon, people of International Rescue. You will be hearing this at some time after our, um, little welcome in Tirana. Do not worry. The problem at the nuclear power station has already been fixed, and there will be no deaths on your consciences, __today__. However, this is a warning. _

_Respond to any more rescues, or even launch your Thunderbirds, and you __will__ be shot down. I hope not to be seeing you again, and have a pleasant day.'_

Damn. All three listeners sat in silence, a concerned hush settling over them. Scott would have said something, but he didn't think anything in his vocabulary quite covered it.

It appeared that they had been set-up, and played, in a vicious, unforgiving manner. Question was; did they believe it?


	9. Going Home

**9. Going Home**

Normally, journeys to somewhere you really want to go always seem to take twice as long as they should, and trips to the single place you don't want to be, over in flash. Today was no different. All John wanted was to get home; yet, it seemed to be taking forever.

Scott hadn't said a word since their father had instructed them to return to the island, and the silence had been uncomfortable and long.

As far as John could tell, or imagine, Scott was either blaming himself for not seeing the danger earlier (which was just about the most dumb-ass thing, ever) or he was unspeakably furious with their father for not allowing them to confirm the situation down in Albania.

Didn't matter which it was though; John still didn't know what to say.

Unquestionable, and just downright stubborn sometimes, Jeff Tracy had dictated that his sons were to turn Thunderbird Two around, and pilot her back to the Pacific island base, after the foreboding and threatening message from a rogue organisation had been received.

None of them were sure how real the danger was, or whether it was just a hugely elaborate ploy to make International Rescue look foolish and laughable. But it appeared (for once at least) that Jeff wasn't prepared to gamble with his boys' lives.

So, bored and with no current 'projects' to pass the time, seeing as Scott appeared to have the flying under control, John opened up a connection to the internet, routed through Five's servers. There he logged on to his personal e-mail, checking for new messages.

There were a few. One from an old… acquaintance (they'd never really been close enough for John to consider them a friend) from his NASA training days, one from a past online gamer companion of John's (from way back, when he used to play '_Knights of Thirsk'_ as a bored teenager) and one from Virgil.

Around him dials and instrumentation were ever changing, and little, blinking LED lights stood out against the alloy-metal sleek panels and his stony-faced brother.

Shrugging to no one in particular, John opened the mail, and scanned through it. Looked like Alan had managed to land his sorry-ass in trouble _again_, and Virgil was asking him to do some data mining for his disagreeable and tiresome brother. He needed some information on a 'Richard Lanning'. Easy.

Looking over to Scott, to make sure he was occupied, and his mind was elsewhere, John dived in to the streams of information in cyberspace, sifting through bogus fronts, and worming his way through supposedly 'closed-doors'.

The astronaut had two good reasons for not alerting his brother:

_Firstly_, not long ago John had insinuated that he'd been warned off activities like these by their father,

And _secondly_, Scott would want to be in on whatever was going on, and frankly John had no idea what he'd tell him.

_Tracy Island, a little later;_

Scott had finally filled the cold, shadowy quiet as they had neared the Island. He'd needed John to take over some of the controls to land the giant craft, and conversation had been a necessity, if not a little strained.

John had surmised that at least part of Scott's frosty poise was down to Jeff's decision to bring them home, from his older brother's snapped, fragmented exchange with said parent. Unfortunately it appeared Gordon had seen fit to make himself unavailable to run the command desk, or had been sent away, leaving the lines of communication to freeze up and ice over.

Regardless of what may have been running through Scott's head though, he still managed to touch Two down on the short, cliff-facing runway, feather-light and smooth as sea-beaten rock. A landing that Virgil couldn't have complained at, even if he wasn't going to be at all happy with the near shooting of his craft.

The disguised hangar opening, a thick metal sheet, with dark, hard, rock layered on the front, slid out of the way of the still rolling aircraft, allowing access into the cavernous area behind.

Inside, the floor was even, pale stone, and Thunderbird Two rumbled across it, velvety fluid. The walls were made from the original volcanic rock, although coated in a near mirror-like substance, to seal the surface, and resulting in the space almost appearing to continue on forever, reflecting images back and to, across the hangar.

The giant craft was guided round in an arc-ing path, to settle back facing the exit, atop the caterpillar tracks that she would re-launch from. Spotlights flickered into life, bathing the body of the magnificent beast in golden hues of light. The space, beneath the lethargic and slumbering volcano, was tremendously vast, easily housing the green leviathan, with its stubby nose, and backswept wings, still leaving room to manoeuvre her.

As the brothers onboard began shutting down systems, and completing the flight log, an access gantry extended out to meet the side of the craft, providing an exit off, and linking to the shining hull with a reverberating clang of metal on metal.

Moments before the pilots left the cockpit, the smart glass fizzed into live again, Jeff Tracy's face filling the portion of moving image. His sharp eyes looked out from the screen, his jaw set and gaze surveying the two men who had stood to leave.

"Sir?" Scott ventured, re-seating himself at the controls.

"Boys, get changed and come straight up to the study. I'd like a meeting with the both of you."

John merely nodded off to one side, drawing little attention to himself as usual, but Scott answered for the pair of them,

"Yes, sir. Not a problem."

The forced politeness was quite obvious to anyone who knew Scott much, his voice tight with withheld emotions. No matter how angry Scott might be with their father however, it wasn't enough for him to lose his manners. Yet.

"Good. I'll see you both, here, soon."

The screen dispersed out to nothingness then, clearing back into the transparent windshield. John stood where he was for a moment, waiting to see if Scott was going to say anything. He didn't, but returned to his feet, and keyed open the exit door for the cockpit. Leaving John to follow behind, he silently stalked through the passageways, and out onto the hangar walkway, before entering the main villa via a back-access door.

Twenty minutes later, found Scott and John entering Jeff Tracy's study together, through the sliding teak-panel door.

The main desk faced out into the living area, where couches and chairs were littered about, and Virgil's grand piano stood, proud. Like many of Jeff's personal areas within the villa, the surrounding space was oriental-themed, with wooden panelling and tall, arrondi pot plants.

Their father was seated as usual behind his sweeping workspace, and gestured out towards a couple of the hard-backed chairs that stood off to one side, meaning for his sons to pull them up.

They obliged, although Scott's mood soured a little more as he caught sight of his second youngest brother larking about, and relaxing in the pool with TinTin, through the sliding glass doors down to the decking. Just something else to add to the list of vexing things his father was doing at the moment.

Despite this, the brothers sat down before Jeff, presenting a completely united front. It didn't really matter all that much to John who he agreed with here, to him there were bigger problems than whether or not Scott and his father butted heads. Like whether or not that message was even genuine, for starters.

Jeff cleared his throat and straightened the edge of a few sheets of paper on his desk. An organised work area, meant an organised mind, and _that_ meant a clear, concise presentation.

"Scott. John." His eyes roamed across his two assembled, now adult, children. "Clearly, it would be stating the obvious to say, that today's mission was unsuccessful. However, I do feel we made the right choices. You're safety is paramount, which is why I bought you home. Nevertheless, I need exact details of what happened in Europe, so that we can move on from here, and take the correct action."

John glanced sideways, towards his brother, presuming that he would, as always, take the lead. Naturally, he did.

Scott clinically, and precisely relieved the events of the day; missing out the details of John's modifications to Thunderbird Two's onboard systems, and his own fear and concern. Ending with,

"…After taking evasive action, the location of the launch site couldn't be traced. Which, is when we put a call in to base, to seek further orders."

Jeff had steepled his hands on the surface in front of him, focussing on his eldest entirely. Now he leant back in his chair, puzzled.

"Couldn't be traced? Why? Was there a problem with the system? There were no signs of that from the telemetry being received here."

Looking up from the floor, John quietly added his two cents then, seeing as it had been _him_, who'd managed to loose the 'enemy'.

"No, sir. The system was fine. The computer did pick up the signals from the missile launcher, but when I followed and tracked its path back down to ground level, the area was deserted. Not one of the cameras was picking up any life signs or machinery."

"Could the computers have malfunctioned?"

Scott picked up the thread again.

"I don't think so, sir. It would have been a damn, big coincidence for there to have been a defective failure of the systems, and for that message to have appeared. How could they of known we would have a problem right then?"

"So where did they go?" Head of International Rescue, and Tracy Aerospace Corporation, Jeff was wondering more aloud to himself, than anyone else, but John, who'd been thinking about this a lot (between helping other absent brothers) answered.

"They knew we were coming, right. So maybe they set-up aim, never really intending to shoot at us. Just a glancing, near miss of a blow, as a warning."

Scott caught on then, and carried on the thought.

"So they held us in their crosshairs long enough to make us worry, and take action. Then, the moment we moved off, and backed away, they left. Probably had left the motors running on their cars and everything."

John gave a small nod. Jeff, for all of that, looked grimmer. His face set in hard, craggy lines, and his brow furrowed.

"Then, it would appear, that this is a very real danger." Going with one of his trademark, lightening-rapid decisions, he continued. "John, I want you to get to work with Brains, and trace that online message. Accurate intelligence is the first step to winning a battle."

Briefly glancing up with shocking blue eyes, that were all his mother's, John nodded, and responded with a mumbled,

"Yes, sir."

"And what about me, Father?"

Jeff Tracy surveyed his eldest son, all muscled-energy, and burning passion to help.

"You can rest up, Scott. Until we know what we're dealing with, there's little we can do, other than be prepared for whatever may come our way."

It was an ending to the meeting, and all present knew it. For Scott, there were a lot of unresolved issues, like leaving those people behind in Tirana, and Gordon, and now his lack of much to do in the way of aiding the cause. He stood with John and left the study though, knowing that one day he might talk it out with his father over a glass of scotch; but that until then, he'd have to deal with it on his own.

_Unknown location in Greece, after the attack;_

The light from the comm. device flickered across Corbin Ricketts face, playing strange games with his facial features in the long shadows.

"_They have received the message then?"_

Ricketts nodded,

"_Yes, sir. I believe the warning was __very__ clear."_

The distorted image of a man's face radiated contentment then, dipping its head in a slight nod of agreement.

"_Good. You have done well, Dimitri. You know what to do, if they do not follow our suggestions."_

"_Of course, sir. You do not need to worry. I know what to do."_

The connection ended then, cutting off abruptly and leaving the room in complete darkness.

But yes, Corbin Dimitri Ricketts knew exactly what must be done, if International Rescue could not adhere to the straightforward and succinct orders they'd been given.


	10. Understanding

**Edits to made to aid later continuity. My mistakes. Sorry.**

**10. Understanding**

Dinner had been a subdued affair that evening, with every stab at conversation melting away to nothing, and getting nowhere fast. Kyrano, sensing the unease in the household, had pulled out all the stops, presenting a baked fillet of Scottish beef, topped with oyster mushroom fricassee for the main serving. He'd hoped good food might have bought the warring family back together.

Good intentions aside, it hadn't managed to soften the tension any.

Gordon was consuming his generous helping of the food so quickly, it was doubtful he'd manage to taste it, let alone enjoy it. Jeff glowered venomously in the swimmer's direction, over the mahogany tabletop, needing no words, and instantly the young man slowed down his digestion just a little.

TinTin sat quietly eating her meal, all hushful big, brown eyes, and curtain-ing, long black hair tucked behind her ears. She'd tried to attract John's attention a few times, but failed miserably.

She'd thought he might have been able to explain to her what was going on. Why Scott was pushing food about his plate absently, glaring daggers at the innocent vegetables, and why so unusually, no one was talking?

Mealtime was when business and recreation was discussed, over a friendly candle glow, and quietly chinking cutlery.

Back when his family had first moved to the island, John had taken the time to speak with the young Eurasian girl (late one sleepless night, when both had been wandering the vastly, expansive villa), to make her feel welcome in the strange world that belonged not to her, but to five, extraordinarily close siblings. This time though, it didn't seem that he was going to come to her rescue. Maybe Gordon, later…

All of a sudden, without any form of a warning, Scott pushed his chair back from the ornate, richly coloured dining table, screwing his napkin up, and unceremoniously dumping it atop his plate. Now, Jeff looked up at him, sharply.

"Scott?" The caution, and suggestion that the ex-fighter pilot was treading cracked ice, was there.

Remarkably, Scott kept his vision squarely on his still full plate, not meeting his father's diamond hard glare. Another usual thing.

Muttering something that sounded somewhat like 'excuse me' he exited the room; leaving dancing candlelight illuminating his now empty space, and the rest of the table perplexed and fathomless.

John gestured towards the door, thinking about attempting to squeeze whatever was bothering Scott, out of him, like he knew Virgil would have done without a thought, saying,

"Maybe, I should-"

But a determined sounding Jeff, his voice with a slight bitter edge to it, cut him off.

"No. You can leave him. If Scott has a problem, he can speak to me about it."

TinTin tried to shrink a little further back into her seat. Normally Mr. Tracy was either off the island with business, or holed up in his study, working. The few times that he got involved in life outside the little desk that was nearly his complete world, seemed to end up with blazing arguments and stony faces. She didn't want to end up in the middle of it, intentionally or not.

It _definitely_ wasn't her place, to be there, in the centre.

And so, the meal finished in silence, with Gordon carefully taking more time over his serving, and John keeping his head down over his plate, once again trying to hide in the shadows.

Outside of the dining room, Scott stalked down the hallway, towards his own private rooms. It had all been too much. His father had annoyed him on other occasions, done some damn stupid things, but he'd never tried to sit there, at the meal table and _pretend_ nothing was wrong, before.

Well, Scott couldn't do it.

It wasn't as though Jeff could have missed the signs that Scott was unhappy, he'd never been all that good at hiding his frustration; not like John was. That boy was born sneaky. Normally, his father would have made a point to talk things through with him, or to avoid him. They both knew they were too alike, especially when against each other.

Disagreements just couldn't be left to stew between the two headstrong men, anymore than you'd leave a small child out in the world to fend for themselves.

Reaching his rooms, and slamming the white bedroom door behind himself, Scott lent back against the cool veneer, breathing heavily for a moment. It just… _got _to him, that he'd been able to help, and might have left people suffering, prioritising his own safety over theirs.

Sighing, and rubbing his tired eyes absently, his tumbled thoughts settled a little on one idea. It seemed there was only one thing for it. To bite the bullet, and check the news. See what the world was making of their abandonment of Albania.

_Indiana, Evening (UTC-5) of the discontinued rescue;_

"No, _dang_, way."

Alan Tracy, all big, blue eyes, and wide-mouthed shock, stood in front of an electronics store; plasma screens on display in the window. All of them were tuned in to World TV's news station, where a 'day-glow orange' tan reporter, wearing too much make-up, and a fake smile stood before what appeared to be a remotely located power station.

He couldn't hear the sound through the thick glass storefront, but the scrolling titles were enough. '_International Rescue Leaves Meltdown Site'. _

Again, no way.

Unable to get on track, and set up the race cars until tomorrow, Alan had decided to take Virgil out, downtown, to help him pick out the first of what was to be many gifts for TinTin this Christmas. He planned this year to start early with the shopping, to make sure he didn't repeat last year's fiasco, when he was still without a present just a week before the big day.

After the stores had closed, the pair had grabbed dinner at an All-You-Can-Eat buffet, and had been headed back to the hotel for a night watching rented gangster films and late chat shows, when Alan stopped at the window front.

The street was still busy, people bustling about their last minute business; no one paid attention to a teen fascinated by the latest technology.

Virgil continued to walk down the street, hands deep in his pockets, and music rolling about his mind, when he realised his brother was no longer with him. Not bothering to retrace his steps, he called back,

"Alan. Come on. I want to have a look at some stuff myself, you know."

The blond didn't move from where the words were blazing in front of him. His brothers had launched, but not followed through with their intentions? Huh?

Wanting to get back to the hotel and drop the bags he was carrying, as soon as possible, Virgil tracked back to Alan, ready to drag the errant teenager by his shirt if necessary. Which was when he to caught sight of the television screen.

"What the hell?" He breathed quietly. Then deciding, Virgil grabbed his brother's upper arm. "Inside."

_Lower levels of Tracy Island, the gym;_

Scott had changed into sweat pants, and an old workout tee in his room, before heading down to the gym. He strapped up his hands, and then begun to pummel a training bag, working out frustrations through perspiration and burning muscles.

A radio station (sounded like one of Alan's punk-rock channels) played out in the background, starving the silence away with harsh guitar rifts and thrashed drumbeats.

Scott found, the more he worked, the clearer he found his thoughts became.

He was distracted for a moment by an overhead light flickering, and the thought that he'd need to change it later. Then, his troubles and worries came pouring back, like an opened dam.

He _was_ annoyed at his father ordering them home, and if it had been just his safety in question, he might have argued back, but not with John in the equation, so what was it that bothered him so much?

The news had shown that the message had been right. There were no casualties, and the error in the system seemed to have fixed itself, so the only broadcast they were following up, was why International Rescue had never made it to the scene. It was a line of enquiry that bothered Scott, but well, the world would see there was nothing wrong when the next emergency call was made. Right?

Scott continued to workout, until exhausted he flopped down against the wall, half draining a plastic bottle of water.

Screwing the cap back on, he continued to think, and in a moment of realisation, saw/found what was wrong.

It should have been obvious, and he silently berated himself just a little more for being so damn thick. It wasn't so much today's rescue that bothered him (after all no one had been hurt, and he couldn't have honestly risked his brother's life), but it was those rescues to come. The ones they weren't going to be able to attend; if this threat was as real as it seemed, that was.

It was the feeling that he'd already let people down in the future, which was already consuming him. He could envisage the headlines now, _'INTERNATIONAL RESCUE ABANDON THE WORLD, __AGAIN__'_.

He just couldn't let that happen. None of them could. Those behind the threat had to be found, and dealt with, swiftly and quietly. And it had to happen soon.

_Jeff's office, later that evening;_

Since he'd bought his scattered family back together; to live, work and relax alongside each other, Jeff Tracy had been more fulfilled than he'd been in a long time.

He'd not realised he missed having his sons about him, until they'd been returned. Okay, so things still weren't perfect. An accident, and heart-felt apology (whilst the boy had been mostly unconscious because he couldn't have done it to his face) were not going to mend things immediately with Gordon. And it wasn't as though he was faultless when it came to the others. No. There was still much fixing to be done.

However, despite secretly enjoying everyone's company, to get any work done, he had to barricade himself into his private office, and thumb-up the volume on the speakers, drowning himself in classical music. If anyone walked past his door, and heard Bach or Mozart wafting past on lazy sound waves, they knew better than to interrupt.

This evening though, there was no music – hopefully, an open invite if any of his sons (meaning Scott) wanted to talk.

The boys' grandmother, his own formidable parent, had often commented on how alike _himself_, his eldest was. Jeff had always taken that to mean the lad was a leader and ambitious. Recently, he begun to comprehend that his mother had been alluding to those qualities; but also that Scott was unable to leave work be, and that he holed up his emotions, packing them away until he had the time, and courage, to pick them apart, and begin to understand.

Since he'd entered his office, some forty minutes had passed by, un-intruded upon, and empty.

To be honest, he'd not expected Scott to appear in the doorway. The moment dinner had ceased, stomachs full and bodies watered, all three of the remaining table guests had excused themselves; Gordon and TinTin disappearing in one direction, and John, the other.

No doubt, his second eldest had gone to try and fill the void Virgil had left in his absence, as Scott's sounding board. A position he… envied? Wanted for himself?

He damn well wished his sons would talk to him just a little more, anyway. The fact they had each other had always been a comfort, whilst he'd been away at the office, or on foreign conference visits. Now… Now he _had_ the time to listen, it bothered him. Made him feel unnecessary, a spare wheel.

Straightening the papers on his desk again, just for something to do, other than sit and consider all the _wrong_ directions his life was taking, Jeff's eye was caught by a printed copy of the words the threatening, online message had held. Brains had constructed the sheet and handed it out almost immediately.

Seeing those words there, standing out black and strong, against a crisp, pale background, made it all that more real.

'_Respond to any more rescues… launch your Thunderbirds… you __will__ be shot down…'_

It had taken him by surprise, like a sudden storm, bringing howling crosswinds and biting rains. John and Brains had earlier coded a programme to trace the file back across the Internet, to its source, upon his orders. There'd been no word yet though, which was why John wasn't staring at a computer screen. Some things just couldn't be hurried. And Scott… He might as well have told him to stand down, for all the use he'd made of the boy.

No. He didn't need his son to come and talk to him to realise what was wrong. All he had to do was consider his actions, and it was easy enough to see.


	11. All For One

**Sorry for delays. My Design Tech. project is nearly at construction stage though. Less worries from that point onwards.****  
**

**11. All For One**

The news report had been damning. Spreading crap and giant great, dirty smears across the reputation of International Rescue, just for starters.

World TV had found their most annoying, loud mouthed and scandal-prone reporter to send out to Albania to provide live, on the scene, coverage of the 'no-longer' emergency. Flying Abigail Tillman-Muller by private helijet across continents and oceans, the news channel had been first on the scene, and got the exclusive, breaking news before any other competing station.

Let them pick the swing of the correspondence, too.

After all, concerned worry for the welfare of International Rescue didn't sell minutes and airtime half as well as slandering presumptions that the organisation was abandoning the People.

Virgil Tracy was stood in an electronics store, trying to listen in to the simultaneous broadcasts, whilst attempting to appear interested in a large television set. Alan had given up on subtlety and was staring, still open-mouthed, at the screen, unbelieving. He wasn't alone, either.

The normally quiet store had become jammed with 'customers', their hushed, whispering conversations filling the area with a soft buzz, the air crackling and popping with gentle anticipation.

_'To those of you just tuning in, I'm standing outside the recently neglected area of Tirana, in the country of Albania, where International Rescue failed to see through its promise of help and aid…'_

With a faked look of shock and sympathy plastered across her face, the reporter went on for a while, always pursuing the story just a little further down the slippery walkway of twisted truths, and blatant lies.

Just doing her job really. Honest news got no one _anywhere_ these days.

Alan waited until the end of the relay, when someone in the California-based studio returned to the screen, with a,

_'Thank you very much, Abby. Now, we have an expert in the studio with us this evening, who…'_

before nudging his brother away from the crowded plasma screens, and back onto the ignorantly passing-by street. Virgil seemed to be on another planet, his head was probably lost in striking music or dramatic brush strokes, befitting the situation perfectly. Normally, that's where he was, anyway, when you couldn't get a coherent answer.

Completely different in looks and personality, the middle Tracy could be a lot like his elder brother, John, sometimes. Could do the whole 'vacant' -thing perfectly.

All Alan knew was that they had to get back to the hotel, and speak with their brothers. Now.

Taking the paper store bags from Virgil's hand, he began pushing back through the swarming, evening shoppers, who were all trying to get home or those last minute purchases, in the direction they'd come in, hoping his brother would notice, and follow.

The main high street was over-crowded, noisy and sweaty; an easy place to lose a trailing companion amongst the massing body of adults striding about their business, and children swaddled in thick coats, and bobbled hats, protected against the incoming winter weather.

Scanning side roads for a quicker route back to the hotel, Alan started, caught off guard when someone pressed into the side of him, forcing him to stumble awkwardly into a back passageway. He spun around, coming up swinging, when he made out Virgil as his 'would-be' attacker. Pulling his punch at the last moment, Alan just grazed his brother's left shoulder, who'd turned away against the oncoming blow.

"C'mon," Virgil muttered, not stopping to give Alan a moment to collect his thoughts, or ask dumb questions.

Still reeling a little from Virgil's sudden return to awareness of the world, and his own, nearly-assault, the race driver faltered after his brother, taking a moment to gather himself together.

"What's going on? Virgil? _Virgil_?"

Ignoring Alan's frustrated whines, and reaching the end of the dank alleyway, Virgil peered out into the street-lamp lit road beyond; much less packed and thronging than the one they'd just left. Travel would be quicker this way, and they were less likely to be split up. Stepping out, and turning right, heading up the road, he finally replied,

"John left a message. He's got information for us." Pausing, he pushed Alan down another cut-through. Apparently Virgil was a lot more observant than he'd seemed. Then, picking up his hushed explanation again, "About your contract problems. _And_, while we're speaking to him, I want to know what's going on."

The 'and make sure they're all okay' was left unsaid. Because, something important had to have happened today, and Virgil couldn't help but worry that it was something of the dangerous kind.

_Tracy Island, lower levels, lab and the gym;_

John Tracy had evacuated the dinning table the moment gold-plated spoons had been set down upon aurous-rimmed, china bowls, and glasses had been emptied. He'd thought about going straight to Scott, to try and weasel whatever was wrong out of his storm-cloud dark brother. Other things had filed themselves with higher priority though, in his mind.

First, he'd headed down to one of Brain's less cluttered labs, where six computer stations sat whirring and buzzing to themselves, working through some programme, or another. John'd commandeered two of the systems for his own work earlier that evening, and sat down before the first of them.

He'd transferred the background search on Richard Lanning to the Island's server from Thunderbird Two, shortly before they'd landed, and now pulled up the data he'd collected.

Richard Lanning/Robert Lanning/Rob Lambert (all the same person it would appear); ex-convict, imprisoned for three charges of fraud, and one count of attempted perversion of the justice system; current address one of three possible locations in and around Indiana and Michigan.

Not good. Seemed Alan's wishful employer was a practised con artist, and a well accomplished one at that. Almost seemed kind of a shame this time he'd picked on someone who'd fight back this time.

Pulling Virgil's earlier e-mail back up to the active screen, John replied back with a few short, to the point sentences, asking for an immediate response as he held vital information. One job done, John moved along to the next workstation, running through his mental 'To-Do' list.

Here, tracing programmes were running, routed through the space station-housed super-computer, Five, as they were chewing up more memory than the earth-based counterpart could manage.

Whoever had posted the message appeared to have a fairly decent background in electronic subterfuge. There were dead-ends and hidden, false pathways a plenty to follow, and if you weren't slick enough, get lost down. Almost playground stuff though for John. It was with a little reluctance that he (and Hackenbacker, maybe) was going to have to tear the elaborate set-up apart.

Still nothing could be done to neutralise the threat until the source was located, and it seemed the computers were handling the problem fine, without John's constant input.

So, steeling himself somewhat, the tall, ice blond left the subterranean laboratories, and headed out the computer lab and along the corridor. Climbing up a single flight of stairs, John entered onto the 'entertainment' floor.

The belowground space held the island's gym area, along with a home-cinema set-up, and the boys' personal games room. Bypassing the latter two, John knocked and went on in to the fluorescent tube lit workout room.

Scott appeared to have finished his workout, and was sat up against the wall, nearly empty bottle of water in hand. Lost in thought it appeared.

The pilot seemed not to notice him, and for a lengthened second John stood, framed in the tall doorway, watching. It'd been a long time since Scott had looked so… Confused? Utterly puzzled? Whatever his brother's demeanour was anyway, it didn't happen often, and was enough to make John stop and look.

Virgil probably would have pulled a piece of paper and a pencil from his pocket and captured the moment, and Gordon or Alan would have used it against Scott some point later in life. John just noted it, and mentally filed the moment away.

Breaking the petal-fragile image, he stepped further within the harshly lit room, and headed over to lean against the wall beside his brother, one leg bent up supporting himself. Taking a deep breath, and digging up what little courage he could find, John began to speak.

"I know, um, normally I don't notice or make anything of other people's feelings and stuff, but, well…" Pausing, the astronaut grappled for the right words. "Well, it's been like having a damn category 5 hurricane over the island, Scott. I mean, what the hell?"

The ex-fighter pilot didn't look up, and for a long moment John wondered if he'd even been listening. Turns out he had.

"I know. And, I guess… I'm sorry? Or something like that anyways."

As good as their Father then at admitting to emotional stuff. John snorted slightly, almost smiling, then shook his head slightly, sending blond hair rippling outwards and down in front of his eyes.

"You sure know how to clear up confusion."

This time Scott did raise his line of vision, to give a hard eyed, raised eyebrow glare.

"Shut up, John." Then smirking somewhat, "Not like you're the King of Communications however, is it? It's all sort of hard to explain though."

Years of pretending his emotions didn't matter, because, well, his brothers' welfare had always been more important, left Scott without the ability to easily open up, and share what was inside. Being Jeff Tracy's son hadn't helped either. Stuffing problems away inside was in his genes.

John nodded though, from his position up against the wall.

"Yeah. I get it. Kind of."

And that was it. Conversation over.

Like always, Scott would go back to living as though nothing was wrong except the obvious (in this instance the problems that were threatening his family). And John was John. Nothing that was going on now had changed him yet, and probably wouldn't. John didn't just store his feelings in a box like everyone else; he packed them in concrete, tied them in chains and threw them to the bottom of the ocean.

Either that, or he was overly good at hiding it. Anyways…

"So, what were you doing on the flight back? Looked important."

John sighed a little. Apparently nothing could escape his older sibling's attention. Might as well confess now, he reasoned. Scott would find out eventually. He always did.

Like how he'd found out about those boys who used to take Virgil out the back of the playing field, and use him as a punch-bag, back in Oakley High, and how he'd found out about Alan's many in-school suspensions, and threatened expulsions (mainly for attention-seeking behaviour; but that was another kettle of fish for another time).

So,

"Some work for Virgil and Alan. Seems our youngest brother has got himself in a little trouble. _Again_."

Never one for long speeches, the rest fell out in quick, concise facts; leaving Scott with a clear understanding of exactly what was going on east of the Island.

Finally, standing to join his taller brother, Scott stretched out until his shoulders popped and muscles pulled tight. Nodding to the space between himself and his quiet, very useful sibling and friend, he said,

"I'll be there, when Virgil calls back. If Alan's really in trouble, we're all going to be there for him." He stepped towards John, reaching out to touch his shoulder, whilst making eye contact with blue-violet eyes so like his own.

Picking up the chain of thought, John continued,

"Which means we need to have a word with a certain brother, don't you think?"

Nodding, and already heading towards the door, Scott agreed.

"Yeah. Get Gordon and meet me in the front reception room in fifteen minutes."

_A few minutes later, Upper pool deck;_

Gordon was lazily swimming lengths of the larger, lower pool, enjoying the fading sun and his nearly returned strength, when a dark shadow fell across his path. Reaching the edge, the young auburn haired man stopped, treading water.

Looking up, he saw his second eldest brother, John, silhouetted against the disappearing evening sun. Strangely beautiful scene that, with the deep red light catching the almost white blond hair of the astronaut in odd ways.

"You need anything, John?"

Looking slightly above where Gordon actually was in the pool, he nodded.

"Yeah. Scott wants both of us in our front room, ten minutes. Wants to have a discussion, or something."

Shaking some of the dripping water from his eyes, Gordon edged right over to the side of the pool, ready to lever himself out.

"Sure thing. I'll be there."

Then, in an uncommon, casual idea, John stepped down to where his brother was about to lift himself from the water. Leaning down, and holding out an arm,

"Want a hand?"

Startled by the unusual offer, Gordon took a moment to accept. Reaching up though, he grasped his brother's hand,

"Um, thanks."

Because help came sometimes from the most unexpected of directions, and bridges had to be built (and maintained) at some point; otherwise one day there'd be no one left to come back for you.


	12. Ideas

**'Best laid plans...' and all that. Things are going to start getting, um, messy, soon. **

**12. Ideas**

Some many months ago, Gordon Tracy had been aboard a crashing hydrofoil, travelling at stupid-fast, should-have-been fatal speeds. Had survived, obviously, but not without a long hospital stay, and a lot of hard, bone-weary work.

And so it was these days, that he could go nowhere without someone watching from afar; afraid he might breakdown, or shatter in a thousand sharp, tiny pieces, or something.

Still it could have been worse. He could of died, or ended up permanently paralysed like everyone had thought he was going to be.

Gordon knew he couldn't complain at his lot, but all the same, as he sat in the cool, airy front room of the island villa, he wished Scott would stop throwing glances his way, with _that_ look on his face.

As ordered, the two remaining Island-bound brothers had joined Scott in a one of their private, ground floor rooms.

Fearing total destruction and anarchy, Jeff had labelled near on a third of the house's official rooms for his sons' personal use when they had moved to the island, and it was within one of those they gathered now.

Kyrano, their father's manservant, always omniscient, had arrived a few minutes after the last of the brothers, carrying a laden silver tray. Setting down the pot of steaming coffee, jug of fruit juice, mugs and glasses, he'd bowed himself out of the room, leaving the boys alone.

Scott had taken a moment to pour himself a milky, sugared drink, before clearing his throat, and looking pointedly at Gordon.

"I don't know exactly what John's told you about…"

The young swimmer cut him straight off, saving his older brother the trouble.

"Nothing." Then, adding, because he didn't want to get John into trouble if he'd been meant to pass on a message, "He didn't have time. I went straight to shower off, and change."

Scott nodded though, apparently having expected as much.

"Alright. Well, best if you know all the facts first, then." He launched there on into a long explanation of dangerous contract talks, and filled in the details his second youngest brother didn't know about the International Rescue problem, too.

Whilst he spoke the sun continued to slip further below the horizon, bathing the room in darker shades of crimson and purple, before subtle, low lighting cut on in the room, throwing long shadows over the furniture, and its occupants.

Every once in a while John spoke up, adding small details in, and correcting the odd mis-represented fact.

Thirty minutes had passed since Scott had first learnt of Alan's problem, and a little more than that since John had left Virgil a message on his comm. device, when the briefing finished.

"So, um, we've a bit of tidying up to do then?" Gordon quipped, as Scott finished.

He was saved from being beaten round the head by, firstly his brother's fear of re-injuring the recovering aquanaut, and, as it were, the bell. John's phone began vibrating within his jeans pocket.

Pulling the device out, he glanced at the caller ID.

"Virge."

_Strand Hotel, Indianapolis, same time;_

Ducking through deserted side streets and keeping away from the main shopping boulevards, Virgil and Alan Tracy made good progress through the slowly quieting centre of Indianapolis.

As they walked more overhead lighting cut on, as a retreating sun and rising moon left the skies bathed in navy blue and white pin pricks. A deafening type of silence had settled over them, with both lost in private thoughts and concerns. Rounding a corner the majestic front of the Strand Hotel materialised into sight.

It was a renovated eighteenth century building; with huge white marble columns at the front, and porters waiting outside in green uniforms, ready to take your luggage. All sophistication and expensive luxuries.

A doorman, dressed in the same gold accented green suit, and a thick, hotel-regulation overcoat, opened the heavy-framed entrance for the brothers, ducking his head as they thanked him and carried on walking inside.

The reception exuded as much rich history, and utmost extravagance as the outside of the building did. The main desk was hand carved from fine mahogany wood, the red tones lit up by under floor lighting. Behind it sat a lone man, the staffing requirements having diminished along with the day's passing hours.

He looked up as the two men passed, catching Alan's eye.

"'Evening, sirs. I hope you've had a good day?"

With nowhere to hide, and no way to avoid the conversation, the racing driver replied politely enough, almost feeling Virgil's frustration and need to keep moving and speak with Scott.

"Yeah, thanks. Really good."

The just about still teenager, went to move on, turning back around towards the elevator bank.

"Will you be needing anything before you retire to your rooms?"

Pausing again, Alan said,

"No, we're fine thanks." Then, making sure to end the dialogue. "Have a good evening."

Smiling amiably, the receptionist nodded, as though he couldn't see through the thinly veiled snub.

"Thank you. You to, sirs."

Then, he went back to his work, leaving Alan and Virgil to continue on to the waiting elevator, from where they returned to Virgil's room up on the fourth floor.

Closing and locking the door behind him, Virgil shrugged off his coat, hanging it up. Alan had already made himself at home, dropping the store bags just inside the room, and sitting down on the bed.

"I'm just going to splash some water on my face, and whatever, and _then_ we'll call John." The engineer looked at his watch then, doing quick calculations. "It's late evening over there, so they should have already had dinner."

"Yeah. Alright."

As Virgil disappeared into the attached washroom, Alan flopped back on the quilted bedcovers, closing his eyes for a moment. All he saw though was an imagined version of Richard Lanning, leering down at him, laughing viciously. Sitting bolt upright, he opened his eyes again. Damn.

He was saved though by the re-emergence of Virgil, looking somewhat fresher.

"Right. You coming?"

Alan nodded, and got up to stand behind his brother who had sat down at the comm. station provided in the room.

Neither of the boys could, or wanted to, comprehend just how important this one call might be. Although sure their father would have called if another of their siblings had been hurt, they were helpless but to realised it was a possibility.

What if International Rescue hadn't reached Albania because Scott or John had been hurt?

Or (although this scenario weighed more heavily on Alan's mind), what if they'd had to turn around because Gordon had relapsed, or had an accident?

Virgil paused reaching out to punch in John's number. As if reading his mind, Alan touched his shoulder.

"I'm sure they're fine, Virge. I mean… John's efficient and gets work done and stuff, but even _he_ wouldn't have bothered with my stupid problems if someone was hurt."

Since the five boys had lost their mother, they'd looked out for one another more than ever. They'd been there to pick up anyone who fell behind, and to dust off scrapes and cuts along the way.

"Yeah. Of course, Al. You're right. John wouldn't drop anyone like that."

Still, he wasn't convinced, although he knew he should have been. The fear wouldn't go though, till he'd seen the remaining three of his siblings well and intact.

When they'd agreed all those years ago to follow their father's dream, to form a once-in-the-world rescue team, only Scott seemed to have fully realised what _could_ happen. Recent times though had bought everyone's mortality a little more in focus.

It was still with a concerned heart that Virgil dialled up John's phone, and sat waiting for the call to connect five brothers sat hundreds of miles apart.

When the screen did form an image, it was of John, Scott and Gordon; all sat in one of the villa's ground floor rooms.

"Hey."

Alan leaned in a little closer to the system, just glad that everyone seemed okay. Virgil actually began to smile.

"Hey. How are all of you? Hear you've been having some trouble."

John stayed quiet waiting for Scott to answer, and take the lead.

"Yeah. Nothing we can't handle though. I'll tell you about it later." Then, "What the hell's so funny, Alan?"

Behind the eldest Tracy brothers, Gordon had sat rolling his eyes at Scott's predictable brush off of International Rescue's problems. Typical of the fighter pilot to want to shield his family from danger, really.

All the not-so-innocent schoolboy, Alan replied,

"Nothing, Scott."

"Good." Scott moved on swiftly, because it was late at both ends of the conversation, and he didn't know how long they'd have before Kyrano decided to make a reappearance with more coffee. "John's explained about the situation your end, and has some information I think. Right?"

Through the vid. screen John was seen to nod slightly, blond hair shifting with the movement. The astronaut was not a social person. He'd been known during his days as a student to be living off of cola, highly caffeinated drinks and spearmint chewing gum, just to avoid the dinner halls.

He'd always been more open around his brothers though, what with them being stuck with him and less likely to judge his lack of manners, and strange, disjointed way of conversing. So,

"I looked up Richard Lanning on some databases, and, um, that's not the only name he goes by. He's an Indiana/Michigan-based fraud-shark, been jailed a few times, and tried to bribe the jury on one of his cases. Looks like not someone you want to be mixing with, Al."

Alan bobbed his head slowly, taking the information in.

"Right. So, I stay the hell away then." He paused, thinking. "I know I might have been worried about nothing with all this, and that these people might have been doing no more than seeing if I was interested, but-"

"But, what if there's more to it, and they're going to go to Wyke saying you've been having contact with other teams, right?"

Alan smiled at his brother though the comm. link.

"Yeah, Gordo. Exactly."

Scott pushed into the conversation here, hurrying it all along a little more.

"As I'll get to soon, we've got some other issues going on right now at the same time, so us three have spoken and want to run a plan of action past you."

"Go ahead." Virgil shifted his seat over a little, so Alan could step forward more, and be closer in to the group.

"Alan, you send a message back to this Richard Lanning guy, politely declining his offer, saying that you are happy at P-D racing. Then, race the final round as planned. If there are any problems, we re-group and re-think, and John will try and run interference until something else can be sorted. Until then, we focus on IR, together."

"And what happens to Lanning?"

Scott continued,

"We leave him alone, until International Rescue is safe. Then, we'll put something together, incriminating, and hand it over to the authorities. As a re-offender, even shaky information should hopefully get some investigating done."

Alan gave a thin smile then.

"Thanks. All of you. I just… don't want to lose what I've worked to build up here."

Just out of view of the camera Virgil squeezed Alan's lower arm, a '_no worries, kid_' gesture that spoke for the whole family.

"Not a problem. After all, it's not like we don't have _other_ things to sort, Al." Gordon joked. "Just, one question though, and maybe I'm being stupid having spent a good few months out of the social ring, but, why didn't you go to the Racing Governing Body with this?"

Now, Alan blushed a little. He'd half been to scared of what these people might have done if he had, and three-quarters not thinking. He only told of the latter. He was known for rushing decisions and being reckless anyway.

"When I got the message I panicked. I only thought what if Pro-Drive found out, and now it's too late. I mean, I've had this message a while, and they'd want to know why I hadn't reported it straight away. There's a strong possibility that it'd look like I was considering the offer, and P-D would have to sack me, as I'd of breached contract terms, whether they wanted to or not. Besides, Virgil's not been involved in high level sports really, so I guess I can't blame him for not suggesting it."

He got a cuff to the back of the head for that.


	13. Regrets

**13. Regrets**

_The past and the day of the abandoned rescue, New York University, Courant Institute of Mathematical Sciences;_

Ralph Bersch hadn't gone looking for _them_. No. They'd come and found him on their own, one late evening.

A struggling single mother had raised him in the slum-districts of New York City. She'd moved to the urban centre hoping for better job outlooks, and a more secure future for her young children. All she'd found however, was work with little pay, and too expensive rent. Money gone, and ties broken with family back home, Harriet Bersch had no option left but tough it out.

Along with her two sons, she'd moved into a three-bedroom apartment, with another family, who, like them, couldn't afford the lease on their own.

As they'd grown her boys had taken on their own separate ways. Tyler, the eldest, had failed high school, and disappeared at the age of eighteen. He'd left a half-legible note, saying he'd found an apprenticeship out of town. Harriet had so desperately wanted to believe it was true.

Ralph on the other hand, had kept his head down, worked hard, and _wanted_ to find a better way.

At school the youngest Bersch son had always stood out, with a singularly outstanding aptitude for math and science; he'd been one of only eighteen students to graduate Saint Jude's within the set four-year time frame, in the last decade.

Poverty had stripped his home area of properly qualified teachers, and the bootleg-versions left much to be desired.

The community had sensed that of all of those who dwelled among them, Ralph Bersch could _actually_ make something of himself, and get out of the lose-lose situation they were all stuck in. Together, those who lived in his apartment block, and attended his high school had scrapped together enough for an application to NYU, and the scholarship scheme.

Who said camaraderie and alms giving was dead and buried in the modern age?

Besides, who knew, maybe he'd make it as council worker, or better, a politician and remember those back in skid row. His making could form an improved, preferable life for them all.

It'd been a long shot all the same, and on the day of his interview and entrance exams, Ralph's mother had walked him to the subway station, pressed the last of her savings into his hand, and said,

"Mind yer manners, Ralph. Smile, an' shake hands. Be yerself, an' they'll lov' yer, Honey."

He hadn't managed to ask what would happen if he failed to be accepted, too scared of disappointing everyone who knew him.

He hadn't needed to bother with the worry though. Ralph was confirmed a place at NYU to study Computer Sciences weeks later, and got a final, coveted position in the scholarship scheme.

Which was how he ended up with an access card to NYU's computer labs. His classmates, his supposed equals, all shunned him, rejecting his lowly upbringing compared to their cupcake-sweet childhoods, with daddy's bankcard. So, Ralph took to spending his spare time in front of a computer, programming websites for small fees and delving into online worlds.

There, where everyone was represented by his or her own avatar, he could be who he wanted… what he wanted. Where he'd started out from didn't matter, just where he was going to get to.

It was in the virtual city of _Lower Wisley_ that Ralph first met his latest (and possibly last) employer. He'd been searching for a girl, with cotton candy pink hair, and a large silver amulet, who'd help him on his present quest.

From between the leafy green foliage, and smoky-grey buildings, a man had appeared. He wore simple black trousers, and a long, blue travelling cape. Clearly from out of town.

Ralph had ignored him to start with, still intent on finding the mysterious girl, and progressing on in his game. Complete this challenge, and he'd earn enough points to update his avatar with new weapons, and better allies.

The little known, unidentified man continued towards Ralph though, determined to attract his attention. He got close enough for the teenage gamer to have to acknowledge him, before saying,

"R u phAn**t**0_m_ g**3**3k?"

The message flashed up in his personal contact box, filed under '_Urgent'_. For a moment, Ralph thought about just walking away, whoever this person was appeared to be low level, with no means to attack back from a snub. That this person knew his name though caught his attention, and intrigued him enough for a reply.

Clicking the private message option, Ralph typed,

"Whu r u?"

The reply was almost instant.

"**t**r0jAn 4j_8_1. I need ur help."

Figured. What newbie _didn't _need his help? Sighing, he keyed back,

"Im lstening."

On the corner of his screen Ralph suddenly saw the girl he'd been looking for. Damn. She had to arrive now. To stay or go? Caught between reality and virtual life, the importance of finishing his mission or the ruse of what this man wanted, he paused, hand hovering over the mouse. And then, the moment was gone. The girl disappeared back into the crowds of people moving about around them.

Uncharacteristically the teenager thumped his fist down on the workbench, making his plastic coffee cup, and empty noodle pot jump and quiver.

Thinking, _this had better be good_, Ralph had gone back to waiting for a reply. It came after a long while.

"Need wbsite made. Pay well. Intrsted?"

Surprised, Ralph blinked. Who was this '**t**r0jAn 4j_8_1'? But, money was money, right?

"Yeh. Cn we tlk somewhr else? Dnt mix wrk n play."

The furtive, puzzling man agreed, passing on an e-mail address that he could be contacted at. Ralph had done so, receiving his instructions.

His employer wanted a simple website, with a single audio file attached. There were three catches however, to adhere to strictly.

First, the website had to be timed to be accessible only from a set date and time. Okay, everyone had their quirks.

Second, the source of upload and creation had to be untraceable. A little strange, but easy enough.

Third, and most importantly, he was not to speak about the job. Ever. Just crossed the line between unusual and downright odd there, but, what the hell, huh? Stick your hand in the bag, and see what coloured ball you pulled out.

So, the student had easily agreed. After all, he was being paid a lot of money to do this. Probably, for his silence. Still, didn't mean he couldn't send most back to his lonely mother, and get her out of the run-down place she was living in, and back above the poverty line.

Nevertheless, Ralph Bersch had been brought up with respectable morals, and a good heart. And that was the reason why, when he received the text and audio file to put on the website, bile rose to his throat, and he wished he hadn't taken the job and payment.

A contract, virtual or not, was a contract though, and the boy had completed the work wishing it was all an elaborate hoax.

Turned out God hadn't listened to his wishes. His mother had always said the Lord only listened to good people. Three months after he'd done the programming and received his fee, just as Ralph was being to believe that nothing more was going to come of what he'd done, a news report had aired.

International Rescue had left an emergency in Europe for some unknown reason.

Ralph Bersch knew though. Feared the consequences, too.

For, some hours after the aborted rescue, an e-mail had entered his account. Despite his employer's wishes, the teenager had coded a backdoor into the website. If anyone managed to trace the origin of the uploaded pages, if he'd made an error; notification would be sent immediately, maybe leaving just enough time to move on, and erase any trace of his existence in New York.

With shaky, sweating hands, Ralph had opened the message. He was alone in the University's computer labs, so no one even noticed him leave quietly out the side exit. Only his tutor would realised his absence some days in the future.

He wished he'd of had time to leave his mother a note, like his brother had done when he'd left. And, he hoped International Rescue weren't really at risk from these unknown enemies he'd stupidly helped. But, most of all…

He had to believe, for his own sake, that International Rescue wouldn't strike back, to save themselves.

_Indianapolis Raceway, first day of car set-up;_

An hours desperate skidding across the Brickyard's rain slicked track bought the finish lines' flashing lights past the car's window. At the same time, Alan's headset radio crackled to life.

"Alright, Tracy. Bring her in on the next lap. Unless the race is a wash-out we're doing nothing useful anymore."

Alan had tapped his radio twice as way of recognition, and continued to fight the car round the twisty in-field section of the track. Twenty minutes ago a downpour had started, flooding lowered areas on the circuit, and leaving the lights of the paddock as starry dots in a waterlogged windscreen.

Great day for a drive.

Hitting the brakes slowly to avoid aquaplaning into a neighbouring garage, Alan Tracy decreased his speed gradually as his pulled onto the final straight, and manoeuvred in to his own pit box.

Shutting off the still growling engine, Alan unstrapped and levered himself out the ground-scrappingly low car. He unfastened his helmet, pulling the heavy item off, before running a hand through his sweat-hung hair.

Matt Harshaw waltzed over to stand next to his car, squinting out into the continually falling sheets of rain.

"Like damn swimming out there." Alan commented.

Harshaw laughed.

"Call yourself a race driver, Tracy? When did you become too soft for a light shower?"

Alan set his helmet down on the roof of his Ferrari, before joining his race engineer in staring out at the almost opaque wall of water tumbling down. Grinning slightly, he replied,

"Light? Hell, Matt, you sure there's not a hurricane coming in? Or, probably more suiting, that Indiana doesn't have a murderous typhoon season? I must be completely suicidal to have been out in that."

"Yeah." Matt said contemplatively. "But all you boy racers need your heads examining anyways."

Breaking away from the mesmerising view, Alan went back to business, heading towards the back of the garage, and a towel.

"You get anything good before I had to break out the swimming shorts, and floats?"

Pulling up some telemetry, Matt nodded.

"Uh-huh. Should have a good starting point for the race set-up."

Alan nodded, as Lily Mulagen raced round the corner, energy of a tiger cub barely contained, and wrapped up in more layers than an arctic explorer.

She skidded to a stop however, at the sight of Alan standing next to Matt.

"Oh, you're already off the track. Daddy sent me to tell Matt to 'haul you in'." The seven-year-old rolled her eyes with all the conviction she could muster. Then, "Eww. You're all wet."

'Daddy' was the Team Principle of Pro-Drive Racing, and his two daughters the fair maidens Alan and his teammate raced for the favour of. Sort of.

Wyke was busy entertaining guests of the company up in the main trackside building, and his youngest had been all but gnawing at the door handle to get back down to the pit garage and around the action; so he'd sent her as his go-between, knowing the boys down below would look out for the young girl, and ensure no harm came to her.

"Yeah. Sorry, Buttercup. It's a little rainy out." He ignored the insistent _'My name is __Lily__'_ and carried on. "Bet your Daddy's glad he made Beatrice get a new coat now?"

Matt who'd been watching the exchange cut in.

"Nah. Wyke's wishing he'd got her a damn boat now."

Always, indignant, Lily tutted, and shook her head.

"_You're_ not supposed to use bad words around me."

Slapping his own hand, and then holding it out for the fierce, young girl to do the same, Matt apologised.

"Sorry, Lily. It's Alan, see. He teaches me these bad words, and then I don't know any better."

The half child, half bouncing wildcat wasn't going to believe him though.

"Nuh-uh, Uncle Matt. Alan doesn't use bad words. _He's_ good." Matt had to stifle a bark of amusement then, to save himself from the continued wrath of the small girl. "Anyways, Alan, your brother said your, uh, other brother had news, and that, um, you _still_ needed to call someone."

Patting Lily Mulagen on the head gently, Alan nodded.

"Okay. Thanks, Honey. You're a first-class messenger. Later, if you're daddy lets me, I'll buy you a soda as payment."

Heart swelling at a job well done, and eyes lighting up at the prospect of more time with her hero, Lily danced away as if floating on golden petals and rippling air currents.


	14. Closing In

**14. Closing In**

Alan Tracy had left the pit garage shortly after Lily Mulagen had hopped, skipped and danced her way out, a little less energetically than the sprightly child. He was exhausted after fighting his car around a waterlogged track, through puddles and giant rivers of water two to three-feet wide in places. 

The giant plumes of spray coming up off of other's cars and his own front wheels had been so bad the young driver had barely been able to see the black tarmac dead in front of him, let alone judge when corners were approaching, and where apexes were. 

Still, if racing were easy, everyone would be doing it, and winning.

Thus, weary-tired and thoroughly hungry, Alan had changed out of overalls, and trudged up to the Pro-Drive Racing reception booth, in the overlooking tower. 

He'd met Virgil there, who was, of course, mid-morning fresh, and _not_ starving ready to tear the place apart looking for food. Naturally.

The elder of the two brothers watched, fairly amused, as Alan dragged himself over to the expansive window to talk.

"Hey, Kid. Have fun splashing in the puddles?" 

A set of raised eyebrows was the only response, and a pang of empathy hit Virgil as he saw underneath the outward appearance, how tired his little brother was. Late night conferences, hard work, and stress and worry were taking their toll on the teenager. All the more reason to press his point then.

"I've spoken to John."

Alan glanced around the pair, but everyone else was busy drinking expensive wines, talking business and waving bankcards about.

"Yeah? Lily said. So, good or bad?"

Nodding happily, Virgil replied,

"Good. But, um, not here."

Shrugging his shoulders, Alan allowed a mountain-shifting yawn to escape. 

"Figures." He mumbled out whilst exhaling. Then, "If we're done, can I be excused? Could do with eating half a herd of cattle, and sleeping for a month. If that's alright?"

Virgil still had a matter to address though. Putting out a hand to still his brother's already retreating movements, he said,

"Yeah, but, what about Lanning, Alan? You've still got to sort that." After, he added, "Sooner, rather than later, too."

The racer ducked his head slightly, pausing for a moment to gather his straying, splitting thoughts, before raising it again.

"One. Not here, Virg." A muttered apology met this. "Okay, and two. I will sort it, just not yet. I need to make things straight in my head first, which means eating and resting. _Then, _I'll call him."

That settled (or at least agreed in Alan's opinion) the young driver finally left the reception building, heading out towards the team's motor home, out the back in the paddock. A swipe card granted him entry, and a handful of printouts. 

As he entered the three storey, temporary building, the company's receptionist ambushed the race driver. She was some years Alan's senior, but all the same still quite young, and in the race driver's own still maturing eyes, quite plain. 

The girl, or young woman as she were, however didn't think similarly of Alan. The moment the outside cameras had picked up his approach, she'd gathered the mail and notes that had been left for the racer, and stood to greet him.

"Mr. Tracy." 

In clacking heels and smart, front desk wear, Leanne Shaw hurried round to face Alan. In her view, he looked as always handsome, with those bright, blue eyes barely dulled by the tiredness and fatigue that showed in his movements. 

"These are for you."

She gave her best, charming smile, but the highly talented driver, didn't notice. Only half aware of the papers forced into his hand, his mind mainly on what food would be upstairs, and the phone call he still had to make, said Alan,

"Um, thanks…" Completely blanking on the girl's name, he shook his head. "… Thanks."

And then he left, pulling open the door to the stairs with his free hand, and nearly walking into someone coming down. 

Disheartened, Leanne slunk back round to her side of the entrance post, to continue on with the duties she'd been given. After all, the race weekend wasn't over yet. There'd be plenty of time to catch the eye of the young billionaire's heir. 

Upstairs, Alan unlocked the door to his own kind-of office with another use of his swipe card, and dropped the handful of paper he was holding onto the desk. 

Took him a moment to collect his thoughts enough to close the door behind him, and sit down at the desk. 

His primary feelings were with his rumbling stomach, so he called up the kitchens, hoping to snag some food before set meal times. Preparations for lunch were well under way, with platters of triangle-shaped sandwiches, and finger bites already being shipped out to the marquee at the front of the building. 

However, the chefs were good people, and promised Alan a sub-roll and coffee, delivered to his room. Ten minutes, or it was free (if it hadn't of been already).

So, Alan had that long to make himself presentable, before he ate, and then dealt with the whole, sorry, 'Lanning'-business.

_Tracy Island, early morning and a little before;_

The sun was still creeping up, over the rocky backdrop of the island, when John Tracy was awake. Even as a child he'd never slept much; too much thought and wondering to waste time.

His mother used to sit up with him some nights, holding the boy close whilst he stared at blinking dots of stars, and imagined life up there with them. But, that was before… 

Now, John just wandered about the vast island home, often finding himself in one of the many computer labs. This night was no different, so whilst the remaining occupants of the house rested, he walked. 

Continually heading downwards, John left the splendour of the main house, with its reception rooms, and large glass windows, and passed through keypad doors, into the whispering, murmuring laboratories and workshops. 

He moved without thought of where he would end up, a shadow hiding in the dark of the slumbering house. Eventually, he found himself outside the heavy metal door of the computer room that he'd commandeered earlier. Figured.

Whilst there, he guessed he might as well check the tracing programme. If it'd found something, a message would have been sent through to his watch comm, and there'd been nothing. Still, he could see how it was doing, how much progress had been made.

Pulling a plastic chair around in front of the computer station, he flicked the mouse with his right hand, bringing the system back from its peacefully, dozing appearance, to active status.

The screen-glow was odd in the reflecting walls of the computer lab, like the fascinating, eerie, alien environment of high mountain peaks, or dark ocean trenches. Just, without the cold, so deep it hurt. 

John keyed up the progress tables, looking them over with practised ease, and much experience. The search was nearly over. The area of investigation was becoming narrower and narrower, the source coming ever closer to being found out.

_Pro-Drive Racing Motorhome, Indianapolis Raceway;_

Pre-lunch had appeared about the same time as Virgil, and more probing questions as to whether or not he really okay. 

All right… so Alan Tracy was _nearly_ as famous for throwing tantrums and angry fits where his family were concerned, as he was for racing, but still Virgil hadn't expected to be physically forced from the room, with a hand firmly between his shoulder blades. The young driver though didn't want his brother hovering when he made the call to Lanning. 

This was something he had to do alone. 

So, having satisfied his hunger and churning insides, Alan sat down at his desk, pulling out his own, personal comm device. 

Couldn't risk making the call directly via P-D Racing's own communications set-up, but he'd rather have used the larger screen they provided. So he plugged his phone into the system, and routed the call through the expensive media equipment. This way, he got to use the big display, but there would be no copy of his call anywhere.

Dialling up Lanning's number, butterflies did handsprings and cartwheels in his stomach, whilst his breathing became deeper, charged with expectations.

It was, once again, the assistant who answered the phone. Christine Harris.

She still played with the chestnut bangs that fell in her face, but the gum was gone.

"Hello. Richard Lanning's office. How c'n I help?" 

No longer needing to hide his identity, Alan had allowed his visual image to be transmitted and the girl smiled warmly at him now. 

"Hey. Um, can I speak with Mr. Lanning, please? My name is Alan Tracy."

She bit the lower of her cherry-red lips before replying. But, was that a good or bad sign? Was she expecting contact from him, or maybe, was he reading too much into actions? If only he hadn't of felt so damn nervous and those leaping bugs inside him would stay still. 

"I'm afraid Mr. Lanning's not able to take calls righ' now. C'n I take a message, instead?"

To Alan's mind, the girl had chosen her words carefully there. It was more in what she hadn't said, that hope sparked and fluttered.

"But, um, he _is_ in the office?" She nodded slowly. "So, then, please, tell him it's urgent that we speak."

Christine shook her head dismissively then, causing hair to slip back in front of her eyes.

"I don' think that'll help much, sir. Mr. Lanning won't be interrupted when he's working." 

He couldn't just give up now though. The final race of the season was too near, his mind too heavy with worry, to not sort things today. So,

"Please. Could you just give it a try?"

Alan tried on his best optimistic smile, one that could almost draw sympathy and compliance from crumbling rocks, and black sand. Worked, too.

"Alrigh' then. If you'd just hold for a moment, sir."

The display was filled instantly with a moving, graphic fascia. The image didn't give away any more clues, being a standard pre-set, made of twisting lines and circles depicting nothing in particular. 

Then, suddenly as the hold system had appeared, the screen cleared to a new view. As pixels came into focus, Alan saw a clean, beech-panelled office. He saw the background first, before he registered what was at the front.

Aside from the obvious method of presentation of the walls, he saw photographs hanging at head-height. They were too small, and too far away to see clearly the content, but clear, bright colours filled the space inside the frames.

And that was about it for what was in the back of the transmitted image, leaving just that which lay in the foreground. A suited man, and a desk.

Richard Lanning looked to be, maybe, a few years Jeff Tracy's junior. His hair was a rich brown, slightly receding at the front. Age had a way of taking away your best features though. 

For the warm of his hair colour however, Lanning's eyes were a cold, hard grey. No empathy there, nor forgiveness. Turned out his voice was as harsh, and deep as a rocky pit, too.

"Mr. Tracy, I believe." He didn't bother to wait for confirmation, setting the hairs on the back of Alan's neck that weren't already, bristling. "Well, this had better be good. I've a lot of important business to be seeing to."

He couldn't afford to look weak in the presence of this man, just like he didn't _want _to appear inept before his father. So, without pausing to give Lanning time to do more than take a breath, Alan answered him. 

_Tracy Island Computer Laboratories, continuing on from before;_

His watch comm buzzed and vibrated at the same moment the computer screen lit up with messages, and command prompts. 

The source of the message had been located, and all that was left was for the programmer to be dealt with. 

He followed pathways and back passages with stealth, like a quietly, burrowing rabbit. Ever determined, he delved deeper and deeper, always in the right direction, and always closing in.

Ducking and weaving about waiting traps of viruses and other malicious code, his journey was relatively unhampered, and whisper-fast as a speeding lightening bolt. 

And so it was that time was running short for the target caught in the cross hairs. 


	15. Mistaken Intent

**I wrote half the next chapter at college, on Thursday. Stupidly, I left it in my locker there. So, 16 won't be up until at least Tuesday- maybe longer. Sorry about that. **

**15. Mistaken Intent **

A shatteringly cold laugh echoed about in Alan Tracy's head. It ricocheted off memories, and threaded a path through sinewy thoughts. He'd been hearing it over and over, ever since he'd disconnected his call to Richard Lanning: con artist, and destroyer of lives. That same voice, relentlessly playing back. 

Virgil had gone looking for his youngest sibling when he'd failed to turn up for lunch. The pilot had sat out, alone, in the billowing, roped-down marquee waiting for Alan, only to find out from some member of team personnel (a computer technician he thought), that they'd seen his brother's car hot-tailing it out the parking lot not much earlier. 

Turned out, the missing teen hadn't returned to the hotel, and wasn't answering his cell, or watch comm. 

No. Alan Tracy was hard on the throttle of his car, pounding up the old, back road out of town. Shifting gears viciously, the little, beat-up Porsche jumped and bounced across skittering rocks, throwing stale puddle water up behind it. 

He'd needed to get out of there. 

So, Alan had grabbed his loan-car's keys, and driven. Forgotten his phone in the rush, and not bothered to go back, either.

The fuel gauge LCD flickered down to just under half as Alan slowed the car, pulling over to the side of the road. He hadn't been going anywhere in particular, just trying to pretend for a moment that he hadn't been so stupid, and as long as he could, putting off the inevitable. 

Running only got you so far though. At some point, you had to turn back and face consequences. 

_Earlier, P-D Racing Motorhome, Alan Tracy's room;_

Alan Tracy had spent the last, long few minutes explaining why he couldn't (and wouldn't) accept the illicit contract offer made to him some days ago now. He was talking rapidly, scared if he stopped that he'd never be able to start again. Reaching the end of what he had to say, and finally running out of steam, Alan finished with how Lanning was to go about contacting him again. If he ever wanted to, that was.

And, it was then Lanning had laughed. Long, cold and heartless.

"Sorry. Let me make sure I understand you." He made a large show of wiping non-existent, dry tears from those merciless, grey eyes. "You think I'd ask you to drive for me again? Unfortunately, I'm going to have to disappoint you, Mr. Tracy. This was a single, one-chance only offer."

There was a threat somewhere hidden underneath that (not that Alan saw, nor heeded it).

"Oh, well, um, thanks then, but as I said…"

Lanning continued on, over the top of Alan, loudly as though the boy had never opened his mouth and begun to speak.

"I was willing to give you probably the best chance of your pathetic, playboy life to date."

Alan sat up straighter then, his movements gone all stiff and sharp. He was ready to cut in, and tell Lanning every way in which he was wrong. Wasn't given the chance though. 

"You see, Alan," His voice had slipped into oily tones, in the manner of a car salesman trying to paste bad goods off onto someone else. "This was going to be very lucrative for the both of us. But, you've gone and ruined it, for yourself that is. After all, I'm still going to make a profit."

A chilling smile was spreading across the con artist's face, growing and broadening with each passing moment. Alan's voice was stony hard when he spoke.

"What do you mean, you're still going to make a profit? How are planning on doing that without a driver?"

Lanning shifted about in the foreground of the comm screen, idly twisting a pen about in his long fingers, the sun still splintering in through pale blinds. 

"Well, because you're going to pay me of course, Alan. How else? You're going to pay me, to buy my silence."

"I don't need your silence."

Alan was quick to speak out, to deny that he needed anything from Lanning, but his balled fists betrayed him, along with the shaking, wavering tone of his voice.

"I believe you're wrong there, because, as I understand it, we need to keep this from your race team, or else, you could lose your seat. Especially if the right spin was put on the information I have. Isn't that right?" Alan shook his head, not trusting himself to speak, as anger and fear boiled up inside. "No? Shall I call them then? Tell them about our conversation?"

Refusing to give in Alan said nothing, letting Lanning raise his eyebrows and reach for another phone line. He watched him punch in a series of numbers, carefully shown to him through an accidental slip. Still, the pair played against each other. 

It's like two cars tearing down a road strip at each other, both flashing their lights and sounding horns, neither willing to yield and swerve away. The question was, who'd scare first, and bail, before both crashed head on?

Lanning reached to depress the button that would create the line connection and reluctantly Alan ducked his head, pulled away from the collision and sure wreckage, replying quietly.

"No. You can't tell them about this. What have I got to do?"

The pay-off ran into a figure of nearly 2.5 million U.S. dollars, and Alan's claims that he didn't have that kind of money, were brushed off.

"Alan, really? Your father owns Tracy Aerospace Corporation, doesn't he? This should be small change, even if his fortune is split five ways between sons." 

Lanning's tone had been derogatory, like talking to a small, ignorant child. It just served to anger Alan more, tightening the fist his hand had already formed. 

The young racing driver wasn't ever intending to meet the conditions. He didn't know just then how he was going to make Lanning keep his information under wraps, and how he was going to get himself back out of the dirty hole he'd fallen in, but, hell, Alan Tracy made up his mind thereupon.

He was going to do all of that, and get revenge. 

_Later, outskirts of Indianapolis;_

Furiously worried, and rock bottom empty with ideas, Virgil Tracy had called his elder brother with a single, wavering light of hope left flickering.

And, _thank the Lord_, it had worked. Which was precisely why the pilot was standing out on a hill, overlooking a currently, in-use peewee karting track, as the sun bleached the sky burnt orange, ruby and gold.

His youngest brother was sat in his borrowed little, midnight blue Porsche up on the crest of the small earth mound. Rays of light were hitting the smooth bodywork, and bursting away like flaring gunpowder.

John had said,

"Alan's been out on that heap of grass since he spoke to me. Sulking, probably."

And then, the tall, blond genius had slunk off quickly thereafter, before there'd been time for questions and answers. The attention seeking habits of a computer had been of higher importance to him.

So, Virgil cautiously approached the stationary vehicle, all too aware of his brother's ability to explode with anger like a vicious hurricane, and of his rough exit from Alan's kind-of office earlier that day.

He could still feel the strong hand between his broad shoulder blades, forcefully guiding him out. Alan usually _did_ leave a lasting imprint, though.

It was with stormy dark music brushing the edges of his mind, that Virgil tried the door. Open. Alan didn't even look up as his brother slid into the inky-black passenger seat. 

The notes in his head merged effortlessly to mirror trepidation and uncertainty, both of which were whispering their way through Virgil's thoughts. 

Despite that however, the silence between the car's occupants, the brothers, was definitely of the deafening type of noise. Alan was the first to break, and to speak, after nearly fifteen minutes. His voice was raspy and confession quiet.

"I'd love to go back to karting. You know, when no one had expectations of you and in return you had just… dreams."

Only last year Alan _had_ been back in karts. He'd been at National Championships in contrast to the fun, under 13's race that was currently navigating the track below. But, it'd been karts all the same.

Then, he'd been guts and glory passionate about making it to single seaters. Actually, he still wanted to break into the world competition scene, last time Virgil had checked so, why the U-turn?

"What's happened?"

Laughing bitterly (which was very un-Alan like), and looking like tempest purple and black personified, the race driver replied.

"Spoke with Lanning. Turns out he's more of a sonofabitch, than we first thought." Virgil opened his mouth, but Alan got there first to continue. "Seems I'm damn stupid too. Should've known better really. 

Below, someone (in a green and yellow kart, with a shadow-grey and white helmet) crossed the finishing like, passing the chequered flag, and making some parents, some where, fill-your-heart proud. 

Back in the car they were a long way from the end, and a solution. Would get there someday though.

So, trying to work towards that final destination, said Virgil,

"Okay. So, what did he say?"

The artist's tone was light, but he knew it was bad news. Alan wouldn't have driven off, wouldn't have called John and wouldn't have belittled himself if it was good.

"There wasn't ever a contract, I don't think. Lanning must have known I wouldn't take it. It's like a kidnap, without the kidnap. I pay Lanning a lot of money; he doesn't get me in trouble. He's sort of holding my place at ProDrive to ransom. I don't give in, and I lose my job, and probably my career too." 

"And, John said…?"

"Leave it with him. It's filed somewhere between fairly important, and quite urgent, I think." Alan pinched the bridge of his nose, frowning. "He'll fix it in the next two days apparently. Before the last race."

Sighing, as the last finishers passed the line in their little race below the hilltop, Virgil saw misty turquoise melt to unclear olive green in his mind's eye; as opaque as the nighttime ocean.

Everything seemed to be falling to the quiet, introvert of the family. John. 

Virgil just hoped he could stay afloat amid the chaos. 

_Tracy Island, early morning, as Alan speaks to Lanning;_

Scott Tracy had been gulping down buttered toast, and scalding coffee when John had ambushed him. Well, sort of. 

The ex-fighter pilot had sensed, rather than heard or seen, someone else in the expansive kitchen with him. Turning from the marbled counter top his food was on, he found John.

The astronaut was leaning up against the inside of the doorframe, still wearing the same clothes, as he had been last night. Apparently, he'd not slept again. Arms folded across his chest, John raised a blond eyebrow at his brother.

Gesturing about the half-full, steaming coffee pot and dirty butter knife, Scott said,

"Breakfast." Then, he added as an after thought, "Coffee?"

"Yeah, thanks." 

Pushing away from the entrance, John collected a mug from an overhead cabinet before joining Scott, who poured him out some of the sharp, black liquid. 

Together they stood in silence, enjoying the early morning sun and otherwise sleeping household. Without words, the brothers cleaned up in tandem after they'd finished. John taking both mugs and Scott's knife to the washer, loading them inside, and closing the door, Scott replacing the butter and bread in storage.

Finally, as the digital kitchen clock flickered to 06:53, Scott spoke.

"So, um, you need to talk, or anything?"

Because, even though John had sought out Scott, he was never going to have started the conversation. Now the ball was rolling, however,

"Yeah. I know where the message was uploaded from."

Scott looked over sharply, expecting more. John glanced away, out the large glass window over the sink, before continuing on.

"Some college kid in Manhattan uploaded the file. But, if you want my opinion, he's not the first link in the chain. I checked out his school reports, social records, and whatever, and he's not the type."

"The type?" It was Scott's turn to throw a puzzled look in John's direction. 

John nodded, still facing away.

"Yeah. He was raised with nothing, but has good prospects. Smart. Really smart, in fact. But there's nothing to suggest any links with International Rescue, and, according to local news, a lot of people sacrificed their savings to pay for his education. I can't see him risking that without a guaranteed reward for it."

Frowning, Scott reasoned it out, whilst walking from the kitchen to the main reception room, anticipating Kyrano's imminent arrival. John followed behind.

"Okay, here's the plan, John. I'll talk to Dad, and pass on the information. When we get his approval, I think there's going to be some more digging to do. You up for it?"

Tall, blond and relentless, John nodded. Because he'd never been able to leave a problem unsolved, and when something so important was at risk, the stakes only increased more. 


	16. Decisions and Promises

**16. Decisions and Promises**

_Elsewhere, same day;_

Whilst growing up, Ralph Bersch had thought his own home district must have been the grimiest, most poverty stricken in Manhattan. What with the stale puddle water that refused to drain away, broken and cracked sodium streetlamps, and the month-old waste littering streets. Last night's wanderings had proved him wrong, however.

Keeping to the dank, lonely shadows, and empty side roads, Ralph had continued walking further and further away from NYU, and what he'd always thought of before as safety. He'd stopped two blocks away from his no-longer classes and almost-friends to withdraw all he could from his just about dry and exhausted bank account.

Approaching a wall-mounted, electronic dispenser, Ralph nearly walked straight back away. He knew only too well the fallibility of computer systems. If anyone _were_ to come looking for him, it was just too simple and easy to check for bank records, and find his location.

Still, cash was much less traceable when spent (although it wasn't impossible to do so), and he was going to need as much money as possible to get far away.

So, Ralph sucked in a breath and pushed the digit of his index finger against the soft, gel-pad scanner, and waited patiently. A warm glow of light ran up and down his print, confirming user-identity for the system.

Access to the banking programme achieved, he checked his almost diminished balance, and selected withdrawal options. The manager of his local branch would probably have a fit later that day, as the numbers, representing the contents of his account, spiralled down to red negatives.

It was kind of tough though, as Ralph didn't plan on staying in the area long enough to repay the debt.

Shortly afterwards, Ralph Bersch returned to the dark fringes of barely known sidewalks, a small, bound roll of bills clutched tightly inside a deeply pocketed fist.

_Tracy Island, around the same time as Ralph Bersch finds the café;_

The news Scott had burst (after a smartly knocked entrance) into his office with, had raised much confused turmoil and copious unanswered questions within Jeff Tracy. Thing was, where to go now?

John hadn't been the only one who'd not slept last night, and now the fuzzy tiredness was making it hard to think completely clearly. Jeff could deal with multiple days of wakefulness, so long as there was action to be taken, things to be doing. Now though, it was just worry and uncertainty keeping him from much needed rest.

Scott had been sent to fetch and retrieve his brother John, and International Rescue's on-site engineer, Brains. If he found Gordon along the way, well, the swimmer was welcome to sit in on the briefing too.

He might not have currently been quite up to full operational status with regards to the rescue side of things, but it didn't mean Gordon's opinion mattered any less, nor that he might not still have a good idea once in a while.

Besides, after all the bridges that got broken when the boy decided to up and join the World Navy, Jeff was finding himself in need of as many 'brownie points' as he could muster with Gordon.

It was, however, only the two eldest of his sons that arrived back in his paper-strewn workplace… minus Brains.

John as usual was slouching, his true height masked by folded arms and poor posture, his hard, blue eyes staring just off to the left of Jeff's head, out into the rumbling, creaking jungles outside. Jeff had given up many years ago trying to fathom what went on in that boy's head. Better just to stay your distance, and hope he didn't end up jailed, hospitalised or something worse.

In contrast, Scott was stood ramrod straight, expecting the questions that were sure to come his way. Preparation and anticipation; two qualities that had certainly seen the ex-Air Force pilot flourish into the fine man he'd become.

Still now was not the time for such reflections. Too much to do, too many solutions to find. So, cutting straight to the chase,

"Where's Brains?"

Scott had the desperate urge to shift uncertainly about in the presence of his father's piercing gaze, but controlled it, just. John barely seemed to have even heard Jeff.

So taking the lead as normal, and answering, Scott said,

"Brains is finishing off a couple of things down in the labs that he said couldn't be left. He'll join us in a moment, when he's done."

Jeff internally shook his head, whilst visibly his expression stayed stony and impassive. At TrAC, if he called on one of his employees, they _ran_ to stand in his presence, desperate to do what they could to help. Here… Well, _here_, he tackled the stubborn wills of his own children, and the uncontrollable river of ideas that poured forth from his one-of-a-kind engineer.

"Well, there's little point starting without him. The information would only have to be repeated for his benefit to give a complete background. We'll wait."

Which was precisely when the haphazard scientist stumbled into the room, righting his thick-rimmed glasses, and muttering to himself. He took a seat (delicate and fabric covered, with oriental markings) to one side of John, without seemingly even noticing he was no longer alone. Brains wasn't completely unobservant though, as once seated and settled, pulled a gun-metal grey PDA from his lab coat pocket, and said,

"S… sorry for the, ah, d… delay, Mr. Tracy. N… nearly a break-through with the, ah, n… new fire retardant fluid." Then, a little more to himself than anyone else present. "Not q… quite though. N… Not quite."

Jeff, somewhat mollified, waved away the apology.

"Not a problem, Brains. Some things have to be acted upon, on the here and now. Speaking of which, gentleman, we'd best be getting on." Blacking off most of the computer monitor before him, leaving open only a white communications box linked to the New York office (there was an important contract between written up at that moment, and Jeff couldn't afford to be out of the loop), he steepled his fingers on the desk, and looked pointedly at Scott.

"Uh, right." Clearing his throat, Scott, figuratively, took the floor. "As I think you all probably know, the tracing programme has found the source of the message posted on the Internet on the day of the aborted Albanian rescue."

Affirmative nods were received from both Jeff and Brains; John remained apparently totally nonchalant.

"We, John and myself that is, think we may have hit a submerged rock, though."

Brains sat up a little here, taking off his glasses again to smudge them around the bottom of his coat. Replacing and adjusting them, he asked,

"H… how so, S… Scott?"

"The upload was made by a college kid. Ralph Bersch, I think. Anyway, his profile doesn't really fit the bill of a would-be terrorist, and, um, well it's more than likely that he's been working on the behalf of another. Which poses an obvious problem."

"W… who?"

Jeff lowered his broad hands flat to his desk then, and said,

"Exactly."

For that was what was causing the most headaches at the moment. For none of those present, or elsewhere but still involved, knew where the threat was coming from. And, as Jeff knew, hidden, unseen dangers were the worst, most dangerous of all. The past had proved that most successfully already.

"I feel that it may be time to go back on that promise I made you give, John." The blond-haired hacker looked up then. "As things stand, we are sitting ducks. We, along with the rest of the world, are stranded out in the open, available for anyone to take a pot shot at. I need this boy's e-mails checked; his computer histories sifted through, along with anything else that may give us a new lead to take. Brains, John, can I leave this with you two?"

The slim astronaut half-nodded, whilst Brains gave a vocal agreement, already keying up programmes on his data pad. Turning to his eldest son, Jeff continued, decisions made and ready to be acted upon,

"Scott, I need you to fly out to the last known location of Bersch. The moment we have a more up-to-date location, we can pass it on. Till then, I want you on the ground. Talk to his friends; see if any of them might be able to help us speak with the kid. We need the information he has, Gentlemen."

"Yes, Father."

Quiet and calculated as falling dusk, John cleared his throat. His father, Scott and Brains all turned towards him, but his request was only directed towards his brother. Speaking out for the first time during the meeting, he said,

"I think you'd be better off if you waited before flying out, Scott. You scouting around may alert him, send him further to ground. I'm sure we'll be able to get a more exact location, and I have a feeling this might be a one-shot thing."

Slightly, Jeff gave Scott a look that said 'your choice, but on your head be it, also'. So,

"Sure. If you think that best."

And so, the briefing ended, leaving Scott, John and Brains going directly towards the computer labs to get to work, and Jeff with his still in-progress military contracts.

_Forgotten district, New York, continuing on from before;_

Three hours of numb walking found Ralph Bersch in a street of flickering neon lights, and low grumbles of heavy, basement music.

There were more people here, despite it being during normal working hours for more respectable citizens. Okay. So most of the people who frequented this place probably weren't the hard-working, inner city businessmen. But, still…

Ralph had avoided the partial, under-construction monorail and the old subways, knowing at the time he'd left the computer suites at New York University, everyone else in the city hub was just beginning to awaken, and start their daily commute.

For all he knew, Ralph had stumbled along a giant, sweeping arc, and was only a couple of blocks from where he'd started. Doubted it though. He'd seen or heard about most of the shady places in the nearby area (visited a good handful of them looking for relief from study pressures, and his non-existent friends) and this wasn't one of them.

Ahead, the duct-taped together door of one of the buildings swung open, a woman in vivid pink, with slashed jeans and gummed hair exited, weaving about the half-full street.

The on-and-off sign overhead read _CAFE_, the 'A' constructed from a computer 'at' symbol, lights flashing and darting bright as a laboratory rat on ecstasy. The 'E' kept fading in and out, bad electrical connection probably, or under-paid power bill. Either way, it didn't help ease the feeling of apprehension Ralph was holding in his stomach.

Well, the plan was to get a job and work for enough money to get a proper train ticket to somewhere much more distant than here. So, Ralph figured, he might as well start looking there.

Inside, the café was just as much of a shack as its outward appearance suggested, the walls greasy with something unknown and the floor as sticky underfoot as a darkened movie theatre at closing time.

The place hummed and buzzed with computer stations, most of them occupied by black tee shirted, slashed clothes wearers (something of a trend around here apparently), and surrounded by empty plastic coffee cups, and the screwed up wrappers of used power bars and energy tablets.

Edging up to what looked like the main serving desk, Ralph read a dirty sign listing tariffs and costs. Placing 10 dollars on the stained work surface drew the attention of who he presumed was the owner. He was a bear-like man, and thrust out a hand, cigarette balanced between two fingers, pointing towards a computer set-up out in a damp corner.

There, Ralph passed his time, creating a new profile on one of his favourite online worlds (his old account was too risky, too recognisable to log on to) and sending a couple of hopefully, untraceable e-mails.

After all, he obviously wasn't counting on John.


	17. The Point of Return

**Was looking back over some of my older work, and found I'd made a spelling mistake in the summary of _A Whole New World_, and yet no one mentioned it. How awful though?**

**17. The Point of Return**

John Tracy worked best alone. Didn't really matter where (Thunderbird Five, his rooms... whatever), so long as no one else was about to cause distractions, bother and infuriate him.

Unfortunately his father had decreed that he and Hackenbacker work together on the latest subterfuge project, and the latter was taking and following orders a little too much to the letter.

Both were seated in the main systems control room for Tracy Island, from where they had access to every computer-managed network for the villa and surrounding areas, and all the processing power they could possibly need to re-route.

Figuring one of them had to take control; John spoke up, saying,

"So, um, what do you want? Computer history, and e-mail, or bank transfers?" Then, as an after thought, "Or we could flip for it?"

"I, ah, d... don't think that will be, ah, n... necessary, John." As always, Brains took the most practical option. "Why don't, ah, you take the c... computer logs, and I'll f... follow up, ah, personal accounts?"

Shrugging a little, as though it made any difference, John nodded.

"Sure. How about we, um, compile the data so far in say... a couple of hours?"

Stopping just short of synchronising watches and setting reminding alarms, a rough timetable was hacked out. So, turning back to face the monitor before him, John pushed his earphones in, switched on his MP4 player (mainly filled with soft rock, and little known bands) and set to work, prepared for a long, hard attack.

First thing was to gain access to Bersch's e-mail and look for leads as to where he was/had gone, and go from there. Problem was finding the account to begin with. Heading back to where he'd found the original connection and access point that uploaded the message, John planned on using the system history to find an e-mail address that was frequented, and then on decoding passwords.

Easy when said like that, or written on paper. Not quite so simple in practice.

_Greece, Undisclosed location;_

They'd had to move base again, away from the picturesque, chocolate box-charming, coast side town. This time, they'd gone deeper into the unruly hedges, and broken fences heart of the country.

The problem was, after a while, people began to get suspicious of all the suited men coming and going, of the long, blacked out salons, and muscle men.

An informant had got wind of the townsfolk suggesting they ask the local police to go and have a look around the small house, and had passed the rumors on. And so, Corbin Ricketts had had another empty villa found (far away from the current, now compromised location) and moved everyone out there. A new headquarters. Same motive.

Other than what should have been an expected hiccup, everything was progressing well. A little too well in fact. International Rescue had not yet risked launching again, although it had been rather quiet on the 'disaster' scene.

Ricketts had demanded on arrival in the new building, that a room was setup with a permanent link to the World News website. The page was projected up on to a white painted wall, refreshing every 30 seconds, and ready to bring news of any disobedience from the targeted organisation.

It was in front of this image he stood now, the picture of distorted, twisted power. Dark suited righteousness, gone strangely wrong.

Finally, still staring obsessively at the flickering news feed, Ricketts acknowledged a man who'd been standing quietly in the corner, hiding from the merciless glee of a plan well executed.

"_I believe it is time to test International Rescue's resolve properly._" Gazing longingly up at the screen, wishing for it to show signs of the rescuers so he could legitimately exact his revenge, he continued. "_Yes. Tell Zeta-Unit it is time to act._"

Already edging from the artificially darkened room, the man answered,

"_Of course, Sir. They will be mobile within the hour._"

_Tracy Island, crowded main systems control room, underground;_

Up in Thunderbird Five, in the privacy and coldness of space, John Tracy might've expressed emotion at a significant investigation break-through. Here, down on Earth, in the presence of Brains, and half a dozen concealed, blinking cameras, the edge of his mouth slightly twitched, and he flicked his music player on to the next song, more upbeat and racy than the last.

He'd successfully broken into what appeared to be Bersch's most used, University provided account. (Not the one he played computer role-playing games on, but from which he contacted lecturers and made bank transactions).

_And_ it had been accessed recently.

The computer sciences student had sent an apologetic message to his primary studies tutor, explaining he'd be away from his lessons and instructional periods indefinitely... due to his mother falling unexpectedly ill.

Uh huh._ Sure_, that was the reason for his absence. (Along with Godzilla's unforeseen appearance in New York City, and the imminent arrival of Armageddon in a raining shower of fire and burning brimstone.)

Still, who was John to complain? This was the exact opening he needed in order to track down the missing, and vitally important, student. Glancing over to Brains (the engineer was even now chewing on the end of a yellow and black pencil stub and hitting keystrokes rapidly) John thought about sharing his lead, and getting both of them to make a duel assault on the newest pathway opened up. Logic won out though.

Brains might also be on to something, and there was no point doubling manpower on a task that could easily be executed by a single person.

Hence, John focused back on his own computer system before him, dialed up a connection to Five's servers to download some of his more intricate and proficient programmes, and got back to work.

Turned out, Ralph Bersch definitely did not want to be traced, what with all the dead ends and cul-de-sacs left for anyone following the origin-path of the e-mail back. It would have been so easy to get lost amongst the flying terra-bites of information, and misleading, false doorways through which hid dangerous viruses, and memory eating nuisances. But, John was equal to the challenge, and reacted well and quickly to the unexpected.

If his father, the all-powerful Jefferson Tracy, were ever to let John out regularly on missions, he would have been pleasantly surprised at how well John fielded the out of the blue and bewildering events that happen in the real, always changing world. He was the kind of man who planned ahead, who didn't need to panic because he already had a dozen plan B's, C's and D's in action. The sort of person you wanted on _your_ team.

Which was why John already had in his extensive arsenal all the tools he needed. He uploaded and ran programmes the instant they were needed, (sometimes before, anticipating attack) and they acted like a heavy, wooden shield against viruses and data-chewing bugs. In fact, before he'd even started to delve deeper into the unknown codes, John had unleashed a program he'd 'borrowed' initially (and later made changes to, and perfected) many years ago from a classmate. It was called _'minotaur.exe'_, a script of binary instructions that operated as a ball of string tied to the entrance, ready to be followed back out to an exit if called upon.

It was with two steps forwards, and one back, each carefully weight-tested for safety first, that progress was made. And ten minutes before the scheduled 'share information' time arrived, John Tracy achieved the final goal, and made it through to break the finish line red tape.

Pushing his wheel-based chair away from the desk, John removed his earphones and stretched, a smile just about ghosting across his face. Brains looked up as he did so, frowning slightly.

"Is, ah, everything o… okay, John?"

Glancing back once at the computer screen, the astronaut/hacker replied,

"Yeah. I just found our delivery man." Noting Hackenbacker's sudden increased interest and somewhat shocked appearance, he continued. "Bersch's still in Manhattan it would appear. He's been sending out absence notes from an internet cafe."

Brains shook his head a little.

"I don't, ah, k… know how you always do it, J… John." Getting up from his somewhat crowded workstation (it was quiet joke among the Tracy brothers that it was as though a perpetual mess followed the engineer about), the genius designer gestured towards the door. "P… perhaps we should, ah, inform y… your father?"

Shrugging, as it had become habit recently, John agreed, less than enthusiastically.

"Yeah, I guess. C'mon, let's get this over with."

Jeff Tracy was still seated in his office, a vid-comm unit active, with a board of suited, executive directors at the other end of it, when Brains and John reached the main villa. Bad time to interrupt.

Instigator of Tracy Aerospace Corporation, Jeff was gesturing fiercely at the screen, his deep, rumbling voice no doubt leaving whichever employees who were at the end of the line falling over themselves to fix whatever was wrong, for it didn't sound like a friendly, congratulatory conversation.

Stalling for time, John left Brains waiting outside the expensively furnished room, saying he was going to go looking for Scott, and maybe Gordon. Unquestionably, their father would want his eldest son as an active participant in the latest, soon to be held meeting, so John figured he'd just save them all some trouble.

He found the ex-fighter pilot outside, watching Gordon swim laps of the lower pool.

"Hey."

Scott turned around, sun glinting off of his mirrored sunglasses. There was an empty, poppy red lounger next to his, so John went and sat down, his pale, computer monitor-drained skin a stark contrast to his elder brother's sun-kissed glow. It'd take longer than a few days of terra firma to replace the warming colour in his brother's complexion.

"You guys found anything? Or is this just a social visit?"

Gordon, hearing conversation, stopped after completing the lap he was already swimming, and levered himself from the water in a single graceful movement. Shaking water from his auburn, chlorine-stained hair, he deftly caught the rolled towel that was thrown at him. Whilst drying off, he ambled over to his brothers, repeating Scott's sentiments,

"So, to what do we owe this great honor of your appearance, Johnny?"

Dodging the lobbed wet towel and Gordon's somewhat damp arrival on the end of his sun lounger, John answered.

"Found Bersch. He's still in fairly close proximity to NYU. Dad's in a meeting though." He raised a blond eyebrow, but needn't have bothered. Both Scott and Gordon knew the rules when it came to disturbing their father's business work.

Don't.

"So, um, I thought I'd come and find you two before the showdown, to save time."

Grinning suddenly, Gordon said,

"Showdown? That's a little dramatic isn't it? I thought you just wanted to pass on new information." Then in a theatrical stage whisper, "It's okay. Your secret's safe with me."

Exchanging glances with John, Scott gave his second youngest brother a level stare. Back pedaling fast, said Gordon,

"Or, um, you know… It's just… Never mind."

Apparently now was not the time for jokes. Funny, or not. Recently it had very much been the latter. With the International Rescue trouble hanging overhead, like low storm clouds, everyone was worried, especially the boys with the added weight of Alan's problems, and keeping them from their father. Right now though, Scott had an important question to get off his chest.

Turning to his younger brother, and removing his sunglasses as John squinted through the reflected light glare, the decorated USAF officer said,

"You want to fly out to find this kid yourself, don't you?" John said nothing, but looked, puzzlingly, at Scott. "Just, when you said you didn't want me flying out yet to get him incase I scared him off, well, that wasn't the real reason, was it? I don't mind, John. I'm fed up of sitting here, wishing I could do something useful, but if you have a reason for wanting to go, then it's alright."

Feeling a little awkward and out of place, Gordon slunk back into the pool, with a quiet 'call me when your going to Dad'. Waiting until the swimmer had splashed into the water, and set off on another set of laps, John looked everywhere but at Scott.

"Yeah. I do want to go myself. It's only that, I think I've got the best chance of understanding him, Scott. Of getting the truth out of the kid."

Scott reached out to place a hand on John's shoulder. The astronaut nearly shrugged it off (another, older, habit) but stilled himself.

"Okay. You tackle Bersch then. And, I'll be ready to help out if you need it."

That agreed; there was nothing else to do, but present a united front to their Father, and start the real quest to find who was actually behind the threats to International Rescue. For better or worse, they were in deeper than ever before, and almost past the point of return.


	18. I am I

**Life's been a little hectic. It was my 18th birthday a week ago, and it turned into some 5-day event in the end, and completely took over. On the plus side, I received a new computer from my parents to compliment the laptop I already own (I'm incredibly lucky, huh?) and so have been writing a little more. **

**Hopefully slightly shorter update times. No promises though.**

**18. I am I**

Clouds hung low, like cotton candy, all carnation pink and fluffy in the burnt carmine skies. Early evening was settling heavily over Tracy Island, wrapping the land up in humid air currents, and soft bird song, as John Tracy flew further away from it all.

Having come to an agreement with his only elder brother, Scott, the sometimes-astronaut was heading out towards the metropolitan and urban areas of New York City to find a college kid, Ralph Bersch, who'd been studying Computer Sciences, before disappearing along with most important information.

It'd been complicated and thorny complex to find where Bersch had gone to ground, but John, united and pooled with technology ahead of the rest of world's capabilities, had come through, like a dues ex machina. Again.

Now, restive and already bored of the long flight, he began to look for something to pass time.

As with all standard issue and more specialised corporation aircrafts, the TrAC-Cessna Skyline (a 182 model, in white with dashing, blue accents) that John was piloting, had a touch-activated, sweeping smart-glass windshield fitted. Very useful for occupying restless minds. Reaching out with his right hand, he traced an A4 sized box on to the sensitive glass, a little to the side of his eyes' natural line of sight. A moment later, within the just marked out space, an operating system booted up.

Using a wireless connection, and boosting the signal through coastline relay stations, an Internet link opened up (partially courtesy of the computer systems up on Thunderbird Five). Initially, John's plan was to check his e-mails, and maybe send out a few messages of his own, but as seemed to be commonplace recently, something else flashed up with higher importance.

Noting his active, online status, an alert box crinkled into view on the glass, demanding his attention and immediate recognition.

"Huh?" Reaching out, John tapped on the small square, and a pre-recorded video feed expanded out from where he'd touched. The image jumped a few times, before settling on his youngest brother.

On screen, Alan was comporting himself like a member of a cult, his face a jittery mix of half-adoration and fear. Strange.

Well, that and '_what the hell?_' all rolled into one big, barrelling snowball.

Playback started by itself, and John's puzzlement was set-aside for the moment.

"Um, hey, John. I'm really sorry to kind of dump this on you, what with everything else, but I've got a bit of problem. I spoke to Lanning earlier, and told him I wasn't interested. And, you see, the thing is, I don't think he ever expected me to take the contract." The transmitted image shook its head a little. "Anyway, he says if I don't pay him off, he's going to P.D.R. before the race, with a nasty spin on his 'information'. I just don't know what to do. And…" Alan paused again, for once looking as young as he actually was (and it was an easily forgotten fact these days). "…And, I feel like I've been so stupid. I _know_ you're busy, John, but if you've got any ideas… Well, yeah. Thanks, and, um, I'll speak to you soon."

Uh-huh. What else? Someone needing his help and splitting his attention in even more directions. But, well, Alan was family, and that meant he got all the aid John could muster together.

Tapping '_yes'_ to the screen's question of whether or not to reply, John flicked on his headset microphone, and dictated a short message in response.

"Got your message. Stay low and off Lanning's radar for now. It'll be sorted before your race. JT."

Hitting send on the smart-glass, the astronaut wryly considered how he now had something to pass his time, and that maybe his wishful thinking had brought this upon himself. And his family.

_New York, Late evening, as John flies towards the US;_

Evening was just beginning to draw in, arriving as a burning wreck of fading orange, and dusky, sodium streetlights. With his pitiful savings, Ralph Bersch had secured himself lodgings two doors down from the internet café, in a little, run-down bed and breakfast.

The rooms were owned and run by Daisy Croughwell, a 63 year-old woman of little height and with wiry, silver hair. There was a spry look in her eyes though, that warned tenants not to try to bluff or dupe her.

The accommodation was furnished sparingly, with a blanketed bed in one corner, and a single chest of drawers in the other. The wallpaper was peeling in the corners; damp having squashed its way through the walls and plaster-boarded ceiling. But the rent was cheap, and in return for helping with a lick of paint or a hammer, there was a hot supper on offer.

This afternoon Ralph had scrubbed down the reception room's wooden floors, spent some hours surrounded by thick soapsuds, and so had been rewarded with a large slice of tomato pie, and a steaming cup of sugared-black coffee. He was just finishing up, gulping down the last of the scalding liquid and remembering that a couple of days ago he could have afforded a whole pizza with cheese on, when Ms. Croughwell entered the room and struck her cane against the work surface with a reverberating crash to get his undivided attention.

Jumping, Ralph looked up sharply, nearly spilling the last dregs in his still warm mug.

"Shouldn't you be g'tting to work, boy? That computer rental place ain't goin' to run itself."

Swallowing his last forkful and wiping the corners of his mouth with a marked and stained sleeve edge, he glanced up at the grimy kitchen clock and nodded.

"I though' so. Mind yer take yer keys. I'm going t' Fortean's early tomorrow morning, so they'll be nout here to open the door for yer."

"Yes, Ma'am. Thanks for dinner, Ms. Croughwell."

The landlady nodded her head, thinking how much this young man reminded her of her own, absent grandson, Hamish (of whom she'd always been very fond of). He had the same polite, imprinted manners, and a sort-of lost boy doing a man's job look. Sighing a little and wishing life would stop dealing good kids bad hands, she exited the kitchen, as always leaning heavily on her walking cane.

Splashing some cold water over his plate and cutlery, before leaving them in the small sink, Ralph followed suit, leaving the kitchen and visiting the bathroom before then entering his own room.

The teenage-runaway had brought with him only the contents of the rucksack he'd taken to the computer suite, and so had very few possessions, leaving the room in the same variety of emptiness he'd found it in. On the chest of drawers Ralph had added a small notebook and biro, and under his limp, flat pillow lay two memory-flash drives loaded with self-written programmes. Other than that, a jacket and spare tee (which he traded a computer fix for with another tenant) lay folded in his top drawer.

Pulling the thin, zip coat from its place, Ralph put it on, and pocketed one of the flash drives. Maybe, once he'd seen to the customers and cleaned up the café a bit, he'd be allow some free, personal time with one of the computers.

He'd soon discovered if it paid a wage, and for his ticket out of New York, anything was worth enduring. And until then, there were machines to de-bug, coffees to pour and toilets to plumb, with small rewards along the way.

_Lanning's office, still during John's flight;_

The blinds were folded down over the windows, darkening the room except for the dim monitor glow from the still-on computer. On the screen a video danced and flashed, flickering patterns across the ornate walls, and was carefully watched by the room's only occupant.

The final section of Alan Tracy's first car race with his current team, Pro-Drive, played out, as Richard Lanning stubbed out a cigar, and lent back on his worn-leather chair. Earlier that day he'd spoken with this particular racer, and achieved complete success in his painstaking, meticulous plans.

Within 48 hours a few million dollars would have been dropped into his already bulging offshore bank account, and a promising, young livelihood (belonging to an unworthy, filthy rich playboy) would have been destroyed. No one was going to want to touch Tracy's motor sport career again.

A few doctored e-mail communications and edited comm. records were going to leave the blond-haired, blue-eyed angel of the racing circuits labelled as pathetically trustable and honest as a United Nations politician. Or maybe just as a liar.

Attention diverted by his own glee filled thoughts of well-executed plans, Lanning nearly missed the suddenly appeared, flashing box, alerting him to a new online message. Reaching for the wireless mouse, he clicked on the interactive square, opening up his mailbox. There, at the top of the virtual list, was a new post from an unknown sender, complete with an attached file. His confidence soaring, and common sense dispersed on the hanging cloud of cigar smoke, Lanning opened it up.

Immediately things began to change, and he realised he'd made a mistake.

The monitor blacked out, cutting off the streaming-video feed, and leaving the room in eerie, after-earthquake silence, before everything came back to life viciously. His system (running a Solaris code base and open source software package) began to open all saved and stored files, and the computer Internet history, before worryingly copying itself to some hidden location.

Desperate to stop the intrusion, Lanning repeatedly struck 'Esc' on his keyboard, trying to terminate the programme that had opened and run itself. No 'get out of jail free' card though.

Swearing harshly, the supposed-businessman reached for the power cord, meaning to strip the computer of its energy source, when a message appeared, as clear and flawless as a well-cut and polished diamond, on screen. His hand paused, mid-stretch and hovering over the cable.

In vibrant white, and housed in DOS-style program, with the writing unfolding itself on a black background, it said;

"_Carelessness will end you up in a lot of trouble. Or maybe it already has? I now have a copy of every document that __was__ on your hard disk. Next destination? They go to the police, FBI, CIA. Everyone."_

No options? No, here's the deal? Lanning wiped a now sweating hand (the one that hand been about to pull the plug, literally) through his cropped hair, very much worried. The message continued to hang there for a long few, anxious seconds, before, finally it changed.

"_However, I __will__ make you an offer. Leave all current operations alone, including your interest in the United Nations infiltration play and motor-racing deals, and your files stay with me. Don't comply, and I'll know. The offer stays on the table until I hear otherwise of your activities. Pleasure doing business, Mr. Lanning."_

Like a plastic cup of ice chips had just been poured down the back of his shirt, Lanning gasped and swore and threw things.

It wasn't until his glass Empire State Building paperweight hit the far wall, and shattered to the floor, that he calmed down, and sank into his chair. Everything was in jeopardy of falling apart, and he had a funny feeling that that damned Super Car racer, Tracy, was somehow involved. The mention of that project, when there were so many others the hacker could have chosen, just felt odd.

Finally calming himself, Lanning began to see the positives, though. The intruder had not mentioned his bank accounts, and there were no directly linked files to them on his computer. So long as he still had funds, he could fight back.

Yes. Reasoned thought was needed, as there was revenge to plan, and escapes to be made.

_Still over the South Pacific Ocean, continuing on from before;_

John Tracy had just completely flouted his father's first, and most important rule regarding the astronaut. Okay, so he'd broken it numerous times over the past day or so, but that had been with permission. This time it was not.

With time to spare, and Alan in desperate need of a saving hand, he'd attacked his brother's problem the only way he really knew how.

First, John had called up all the information previously gathered on Lanning, and found a couple of prominent, probably big money-making deals to reference. Then, programming a search and retrieve virus, he'd unleashed it via e-mail onto Richard Lanning's computer. From there, it had stolen all of the conman's files and saved them up on Thunderbird Five's many servers, before corrupting and deleting them all from his hard disk.

Also, he'd left a foreboding message, meaning to bulldoze and browbeat Lanning into compliance.

If he knew what was good for him, Lanning would back off of Alan, and leave him free to race. Equally, John should have gone into hiding and hoped his father never found out.


	19. Live As The Day Dies

**Sorry for the delays. A-Level exams are ongoing, and very time consuming. **

**19. Live As The Day Dies**

John Tracy had tried many times to extirpate his old ways. To stop using computers in the ways he did, and to stop manipulating the world though virtual interfaces. It was harder than it came across as being, however.

And every once in a while, old habits proved to be very useful.

_City of New York, New York;_

John'd finally reached the city late evening (more night time actually, once time zones had been adjusted, and corrected for), and the airport's runway lights had been glowing bright. A little like starry dots in a chalky, black pool, they guided the way in silently and without a sound. The city's illuminated, still yet buzzing and pulsating backdrop spoiled the effect somewhat however.

All the same, after a long flight, the view had been as welcome as a heavy mug of warm milk and a plate of Grandma's cookies.

John had taxied the jet plane into the huge and looming Tracy Aerospace Corp. hanger, having put down safely, before completing log books, and powering off the craft, for at least the night. That done, he'd exited the metal roofed, and echo-y building via the rear door, keying the security system back up, and re-setting it as he went.

Foresight had meant John had called in to his father's receptionist enroute whilst still over the Pacific (when the offices were still open), and asked her to schedule in for a mechanic to check the plane over first thing, during the sharp hours of the morning. It'd been a while since the Skyline had been flown long distance, and, well, it was better safe than sorry, even if he'd noticed nothing awry on the trip over.

Outside, the wind bit and chilled straight through his lined jacket, whipping blond hair into his face, and eyes. Yeah. This was why John hated New York in late autumn. Still, there was a job to be doing, and maybe less time than anyone wanted to admit.

Round the back of the private hanger sat a little automated, airport buggy. The latest in landing field transport…

Here, all cars were left in a parking lot near the main building at the airstrip, with the vehicles' keys kept safe in a vault within the reception. So there was nothing for it but to set down in the electric-kart and let it do its job, or hike it on foot to the core block of offices. Naturally, John chose the former, and after unceremoniously dumping his rucksack on the nearside passenger seat, alighted the little vehicle.

The place itself was a little extension of the main JFK International Airport that served New York City. The landing strip was a fair few miles to the east of the main site, with its own control tower, and nothing in common with its older brother, except a name.

Tonight, the lights of the tall Air Traffic Control Tower stood out bright, with the small yellow and red dots blinking their own pattern on the top antenna. Not a bad night job that one, as far as John could see. The airfield was for private use only, and most of the high rolling, on-the-go businessmen and pilots who flew out of there did so during daylight hours. Landings such as his own, in the early threshold of numerous hours of darkness were rare occurrences here.

But yet again, that was very much beside the point, and John was allowing himself to be distracted.

The little kart deposited the astronaut outside the doorway to the main reception, and John picked up his rucksack, before heading inside. The room was lit with fluorescent, white strip lights, and had the kind of atmosphere about it as that of a surgical waiting room. Quiet, with melting strings of apprehension and uncertainty woven through it. Odd.

Across one side of the expanse, sat a bank of almost completely unoccupied, identical, coloured plastic desks. At the end of the line, furthest away from John (naturally) sat a lone man. Securing his luggage a little more on a single shoulder, John set off, striding across the empty room.

His footfalls made insignificant sounds on the tiled flooring, but it was enough in the silence to alert the receptionist-come-night security.

"Mr. Tracy?" He enquired, pulling ear buds out, and leaving a slight buzz of music to echo around the area.

"Yeah." John pulled his bag off, and put it down on the desk adjacent to the employee's, before reaching for an inside, zipped compartment. From there he pulled his wallet, and from within produced an identity card that he handed over. "I need to pick up the keys to one of my father's cars."

The man, Peter Winrow, accepted the offered card, and swiped it through a reader on the side of his computer monitor. On screen an image of John Tracy, and all of his personal details flashed up. Whilst the computer logged the time of arrival, and the particulars of the newest person to enter the country, Peter only bothered to double-check the photo and the name against the man standing before him, before slipping the card back out of the holder, and passing it over to John.

"Of course, Mr. Tracy. Your father has left the keys to the Lexus and his Chrysler Crossfire." He paused before adding, "I believe your brother has also left his '02 Firebird in our care."

The edge of John's mouth quirked upwards just a little. Alan had painstakingly restored a 2002-issue Pontiac Firebird over the past couple of years, and it was pretty much his current pride and joy. The car was bright yellow, a collector's edition Trans Am… and worth a lot more than John's life. Not that he didn't consider asking for the keys, before saying,

"I'll take the Crossfire, thank you."

Twenty minutes later, John was headed away from the airfield in his father's almost inconspicuous Crossfire-X63T. Forty years after the last car rolled off of Chrysler's production line (due to a complete sell-out to a larger, more profitable company in the early 20's), they had started up again, remarkably to roll a gas turbine, anniversary car out.

The re-modelled design had kept most of its original charms; the central spine that ran along its length and the large, nose grill. Very striking. Very expensive.

It ran by taking all the power from the turbine, and storing it in a capacitor bank. Flywheels in each hub regenerated power lost (well, more converted into something else) during braking, and fed that too into the storage device. From there the capacitors produced all the muscle needed to accelerate the vehicle.

It didn't have as much horse-power as say, Alan's bio-fuelled racer- but for city runs and highways it laid down added power that general road cars, the hydrogen and electric-diesel hybrids, could only dream of.

Still, none of this was of much consequence to John, who programmed the co-ordinates of Ralph Bersch's last known location in to the on-board GPS, and was driving nearly without paying attention. The astronaut's mind was to a great extent elsewhere, figuring out exactly what he wanted to say to the kid, and more importantly what information he needed, whilst he guided the gunmetal grey car through the slowly quietening intersections and traffic lights, towards the western outskirts of the city.

_One hour on, the Internet Café;_

Ralph had been at work for some long hours now, and all but a couple of stubborn, or maybe just without shelter, customers were left. He'd seen to their needs, depositing polystyrene cups filled with steaming, milky coffee before them when required, and given the whole building a quick wipe around with a wet cloth, before settling down in front of the main desktop computer, to work on his own projects.

It had been then the strange newcomer had walked in. The duct-taped, glass and wooden door swung open on it hinges, letting in a gusty, cold breeze and a tall, slender, blond man. Despite his casual jeans and tee apparel, he clearly wasn't from around here. Little things, like the leather shoes, and slight glint of a gold wristwatch around his pocketed arm gave him away. That, and the expensive car that Ralph had glimpsed through the open doorway.

The visitor looked around for a long moment, appearing to take in the computer systems and general state of the café, before heading towards the desk behind which Ralph sat.

John was pretty sure he'd hit the jackpot. Although Bersch's last traced activities had been from this building, there were no guarantees that the teenager would still be here, and that he wouldn't have moved on already. Yet, he was almost positive the worker he was about to address was the boy he needed; his features were grimy and a little less full, but ultimately still almost exactly the same as those on the college pass that had been dug up.

However, as was John's way, he preferred to err on the side of caution.

"I'm, um, looking for Ralph Bersch. Was told he hangs out here sometimes?"

Ralph eyed the man before him curiously. He'd not told anyone around here his real surname, sticking to a fake alias of Ralph Burke recently. So how did this man know him? _And,_ more to the point, what did he want?

"And who are you?"

"My name's John. I need his help, and in return have something to offer him. A trade of sorts."

Over towards the far right side of the room, a strip light flickered and buzzed, before falling dark over a paying customer. Excusing himself, and allowing a little more time to think and weigh up the options he had, Ralph stepped up on to the desk below the light, thumping the side of the casing. The bulb spluttered for a moment, and then settled down, lit and strong again.

Returning to where John had stood patiently, Ralph made up his mind, and made his decision. Something about the fact that this 'John' had obviously travelled quite far, and at such a late hour, made him want to hear him out.

"Alright. We can talk here." Indicating the lone, two engrossed customers, he continued, "They won't be listening."

The astronaut nodded, and pulled up a chair from a near-by, out of use computer station. The grey plastic hid most of the dirt, but John couldn't help but regard the chair warily, before sitting down. He'd rehearsed what he wanted to say over and over, but now the words had nearly completely fizzled out. Interrogation… No, _questioning_, was more his father's area of expertise really, after all. Carefully watching for a reaction, John figured he might as well just jump right on in.

"I'm here, because you posted a very important message onto the Internet, recently. It was regarding International Rescue."

Something strange flicked across Ralph Bersch's face whilst John spoke, but it was so fleeting, gone so fast, that there wasn't time to understand it. John paused waiting for a reply.

"I'm sorry, but I think you're looking in the wrong place, here. I've no idea what you're talking about."

Ralph's slow, deliberate speech reminded John a little too much of Alan and Gordon, when they were trying to cover up things they'd done, and would rather no one knew about. (Especially Alan, actually. Gordon was a little better at hiding his thoughts and emotions. Alan, the eternally bad poker player, wore them much more on his sleeve.) Thus, the speech pattern told him he was right, and told him to stick to how he was going about this.

"See, I can't help but think you do." Suddenly having a revelation, John continued. "Look, I'm not here to point the finger at you, or even to blame you for it. I don't believe the message originated here. You've got no reason to put yourself in the position of facing off against a potentially dangerous, un-sanctioned organisation. But, I _do_ need to know who put you up to doing it. That's all. I need to know where this all goes back to."

His description of I.R. was carefully worded. The world knew little about the workings of the organisation, beyond that they came, and they saved. It was something he was sure he could play on.

It worked, too. Unsure of where he now stood, the teenager answered with another question of his own.

"Are you part of International Rescue, then?"

John blinked hard, before replying, his voice even and calculated (it was important that he handled everything the right way, without jeopardising _anything_),

"Yeah. And so are my… closest friends, who are _all_ in danger, along with the rest of the world, if I don't get to the bottom of this."

Ralph nodded, chewing on his lower lip a little. Turning towards the computer system in front of him, he called up a series of files, showing them to John in turn as he began to explain. It was time to start to put things right. To fight for his own absolution.

"They first approached me through a role-play game online, whilst I was still at NYU. The username was… **t**r0jAn 4j_8_1." He indicated a user profile on screen. "They asked for my help. It's nothing unusual for people to approach more experienced players, so I asked what with, expecting it to be some part of the game play. They said they needed a website made though, and that they'd pay well. So, yeah, I agreed. There were conditions though. They wanted the website timed to upload at a set point in the future."

John cut in here.

"I take it you know what the website was for now, and the significance of when it came online?"

Ralph nodded again, before continuing,

"Yeah. I didn't understand the relevance of the date to begin with, but I knew what the audio file was. So, when I heard about the Albanian rescue, I kind of put two and two together."

John wanted to ask, why if Ralph had known what the upload contained, he'd persisted, and followed it through. But, he had a feeling that if he did, he'd just alienate the boy, and put the whole operation of information gathering at risk. So instead, he pushed those thoughts down, and said,

"What were the other conditions?"

This time, the teenager brought up a log of the conversation he'd had with his employer, double checking his facts the whole while.

"They said the site had to be untraceable. The thing is, although you can make things hard to find, just about nothing on the Internet is completely untraceable. But, I guess you know that. I mean you can be careful, route things through a thousand different servers and make it so that unless the phantom link is active it's invisible, and there'll still be someone out there who can find you." Ralph's mouth quirked into a sad smile then. "I guess _you're_ that person." Shrugging off his miserable oversight however, he finished. "But anyway, I coded a backdoor so that I would be alerted if anyone hacked my computer, and I'd know if I was found out."

"Which is when you left NYU, I take it?"

In John's mind, everything was starting to piece together, and all that was left was who was behind everything. There seemed to be more to the kid's story though, and so John waited patiently for Ralph to reach his own conclusion.

"Uh-huh. I was scared you'd come after me I guess, and well, I was just doing what I paid to do. Funnily enough, my fear's been realized, I guess. That's beside the point though, so, then the third condition was never to speak about this to anyone. They never said what they'd do if I did talk, but the threat was there. Even if it was silent."

It was odd. John never really cared much for emotions, especially not when business was involved. They just served to cloud things. But, here and now, he was starting to feel for the boy. Starting to wonder what really led the computer-sciences student this far away from the life he could have had.

"Why speak with me then?"

"Because I want to know what you have to offer me… Because I'm scared of the repercussions I've brought upon myself… Because ever since I got involved I've been feeling guilty about it. And maybe because, well, I want to help fix this." Ralph disconnected his memory flash drive then, and passed it to John. "Since the moment I knew what I'd caused, I've been working on tracing whoever contacted me initially. All I've found is on that drive."

"And…?"

"And, it's a small group based in Greece. Every member has some kind of link to International Rescue from what I can see. Rescued people, those with relatives who've been saved, and a few with family who weren't retrieved so successfully. There were two names that continually came up. One who deals with other members, and one who has no contact except that with his second in command. The first one's name is Corbin Ricketts. He goes by the name of Dimitri, however. The man in charge though is Ionannis Spiridaki. Greek through and through. Very ruthless, and very dangerous from what I've found."

John put away his concerns for the moment, locking them deep in his mind until he was alone and could properly sort through all he'd just learnt. Until then… Ralph Bersch had come through, and his honesty impressed, so it was time for John to keep his end of the deal. Pocketing the memory stick, said John,

"Thanks. Now, as to how I can help you. This is over now, for you at least. You're not to get involved any more. That's as much for our safety, as yours. In return for your assistance however, I'll put things back to how they were. You're to return to NYU and continue on your course. I'll fix the administration records so that you're not penalized for your absence, and I'll cover any debts you've got from your studies… If you show me your project details I'll fix the application errors you e-mailed your tutor about, too."

Ralph looked unsure. It was like a little piece of heaven had just been cut out and dropped into his lap. Since that first contact, all he'd wished for was a second chance. The opportunity to go back to before he'd agreed to help; back to when he'd been a son his mother had been proud of.

"No bad consequences, then? That's it? I just go back to college, and I'm free."

John shrugged.

"Yeah. Pretty much. _And_ you get help on improving your course grade. Obviously, it goes without saying that you're not to get involved in anything like this again. Because, as I'm sure you've realized, I'll know. And next time, I might not be quite as forgiving."

And Ralph had become aware of that fact. He knew he'd used his only 'get out of jail free' card, and wasn't ever planning on intentionally putting himself back between a rock and a hard place.

John had learnt many things today, too. More important perhaps than the flash drive, and the information (for him _personally_), he'd noticed, yet again, that just one hour could change your life. For better or worse, was your decision.


	20. Implications

**Sorry for continued delays. I'm pretty useless sometimes.**

**20. Implications**

_Driving back eastwards, middle of the night, GMT-4 (DST);_

John would never have called himself a deipnosophist, and nor would anyone who even slightly knew him. Yet, he thought that the general talk with Ralph Bersch (who really _was_ just a kid who'd strayed a little from the old, beaten path) had gone rather well. He'd found out where this whole, painful as salt in an open wound, damn International Rescue business appeared to originate from, and come away with a memory flash drive full of pre-prepared information.

Not bad for a few hours flying time, and a half-night of work.

Back on the Island, it was still only early evening, but John's immediate plans didn't include a call back home with his discoveries. Not just yet, anyway.

The passing traffic lights were beginning to blur in the edges of his vision, like he was looking at them through thick, frozen ice, and the steady thrumming of hot, rubber tyres on the road was becoming somniferous. No. First thing was to get back towards Manhattan Island, where he'd find a hotel, and catch a few hours of much needed rest. Then, he'd have an early start sorting through the pale blue memory stick, and compiling a suitable, action ready file to send back to his father, as soon as hours became vaguely sociable in that part of the world.

With TrAC's main headquarters based in the centre of Manhattan, alongside the New York stock exchange, NASDAQ and so many other world-enterprising business HQs, John had been subjected to enough company visits to the area to know it quite well. Attendance at a few boardroom meetings a year was compulsory as far as Jeff Tracy was concerned, once the boys reached the age of twenty-one, if they were still living at the family address.

And, therefore, based on those visits and general talk that passed between himself and his brothers, he had knowledge of a few places where he'd be able to book a room for the night, even at this late, dark-wrapped hour. So, as the still clubbing, and awake district came into view, the astronaut automatically pulled off onto waste and trash littered side streets, and finally into an underground parking lot beneath a huge and looming building. The Algonquin Hotel.

If he'd wanted John could have stayed, for free, at his father's penthouse apartment, nearby in the inner city. With so much business being dealt with out of the New York offices, Jeff had invested in accommodation locally, for when TrAC meetings brought him here. But, with pride being what it was, and relationships still so tetchy, and bubble-fragile, John was more comfortable staying elsewhere.

Pulling the sleek, purring Crossfire into a vacant space, John cut off the engine, and got out, pulling his much-travelled rucksack with him. Locking the vehicle with a swift button press, he finally paused to think that maybe a hotel of this stature and grace might not appreciate his arrival in jeans and a tee.

But, then again, they weren't likely to turn down a legendary, Tracy-bank account either. A platinum card with those five letters etched on to its surface, pretty much bought entry into anywhere, or ownership of anything.

Entering into the large, gold-edged atrium, John booked a single room for the night, and headed on upstairs, a swipe key clutched in his right hand. The only suite left for the night was a luxury, business complex; complete with Queen-sized bed, and bath-and-shower equipped en-suite. Shrugging, John had agreed to the terms, flashed his identity card again, and given an account number to bill the expenses to.

On a last minute change of heart, the astronaut had plugged in bank details of a TrAC account on the keypad the receptionist had handed over.

It'd be a month or so before the TrAC accounts were settled for this period of time, and to be honest John doubted anyone would even raise an eyebrow at a single night spent in the city. Besides which, his father owed him still for back when…

Even if the billionaire had forgotten, himself.

Up in the suite, John set down his rucksack, placing the black bag carefully at the bedside, before then stripping off his jeans and outer shirt. Planning on travelling light, he'd only packed a neatly folded, clean tee shirt and a set of underwear, and so climbed under the sheets still partially clothed. Leaning over, he retrieved his comm. device from the stowed rucksack, and set an alarm for 5 a.m. with intentions of getting to work on the files as early as possible.

Setting the small, portable machine on the counter at the right of the headboard, John laid back on the 'made of nature's best resources', finely weaved sheets to catch a couple of hours of sleep.

_Tracy Island, early morning, following day;_

Dawn slipped in almost silently; leaving wet, dewy patios and slowly awakening bird song behind it. Within the cool villa, the pale yellow sunlight slipped and washed across the walls and surfaces, falling lower on to the floor as the day broke.

Scott Tracy was already up, habitually an early riser, and was seated in the lounge, steaming coffee in one hand and downloaded, electronic newspaper in the other, when Jeff entered the room.

"'Morning, Father. Sleep well?"

The honest answer to that question was that Jeff Tracy had slept very little, and not peacefully when slumber had arrived. He'd tossed and turned, rustling silk sheets and worrying about his widely spread sons most of the night. But…

"Yes, thank you, Scott. I did. Yourself?"

The ex-fighter pilot shrugged a little, sipping from his red-rimmed, ceramic cup before replying.

"Not bad. Spent a lot of time wondering how John was doing, though." Indicating a coffee tray on the side, Scott continued, changing the subject. "Would you like a mug? Kyrano brought it in about ten minutes ago."

Murmuring affirmations, and striding across the room, Jeff picked up the gleaming, silver pot and poured out a drink of his own, the silky, black liquid splashing down into the cup. Taking a seat across from his eldest son, he paused, coffee half way to his lips.

"I thought John would have called in as soon as he'd retrieved the information?"

Scott set down the newspaper he was still holding, the headline (_'US PUSHING FOR UN GOVERNMENT TO TAKE ACTION')_ still bold and unwavering. Choosing his words carefully, said Scott,

"I don't believe there's any reason to doubt his success, yet, Father. I suspect John's probably following information up to absolute certainty, before handing anything over. He can be a little… _too_ efficient sometimes."

Jeff nodded, not looking completely pacified. But, he'd sense enough to know that as far as Scott was concerned the matter was settled, and having his son on his side was rather important at the moment.

Luckily, any awkwardness was broken and shredded by a low-pitched bleeping that came from the room's comm. unit. John it seemed had finally decided to call in.

Scott's knee-jerk, reflexive instincts meant he stood up to receive the call, and so it was he that greeted the chiselled, blond face that appeared on the screen. Seeing his elder brother's features lit a small smile that slowly spread across John's own.

"Hey, John. How's it going?" Scott reached out behind him and pulled up the chair that was just behind. He sat down, facing the desk and his brother.

"Not too bad. I thought if I called early I'd get you on the line."

Scott smirked a little, aware that neither John could see his father, and nor could his father see _his_ face.

"What?"

John was immediately suspicious, and knew too well that look meant trouble, and probably a severe snag heading his way. Seemingly ignoring his brother's last question however, Scott continued on,

"You know me, the morning's too valuable to sleep in. Seems Dad's had the same idea today, too." The grin was still plastered all over Scott, his enjoyment at seeing his John's discomfort, obviously immense.

A single raised eyebrow was all that met this statement. That and a stiff mask that suddenly settled over the astronaut's face, one that so carefully guarded his every thought and emotion from his father.

"Is he there?"

Jeff had picked up Scott's newspaper after he had stood up, but had not really been reading much of the latest, breaking story. World politics _were_ of great interest to him; warring nations could be utilised to make profit, and financial crisis helped to develop brand loyalty, but today there were bigger hurdles, much closer to home. Instead, he'd quietly been listening in on his sons' conversation, and couldn't help but notice the slight change in tone of John's voice, after he'd been mentioned. Still, now seemed like as good a time as any to enter into the _not yet_ heated discussion.

Standing up, and leaving his half empty, coffee mug on the side, Jeff strode over to stand behind the desk. As Scott went to stand, to offer his father the seat, a hand on his shoulder stopped him.

"Yes, I'm here, John. Did you find Bersch?"

Typical. Jeff Tracy, ex-astronaut, billionaire CEO of Tracy Aerospace Corporation, _never_ skirted around the matter at hand. As far as he was concerned, going straight to the point, and hitting the nail on the head was how he got where he was.

Still, John thought, _he'd_ always been scolded for not using manners. However…

"Yes, Father. I found him. He passed on a series of files, and sets of data with information he'd collated about the group behind all this. The kid knew what he'd done, and had a conscience, it seemed."

"And the files…?"

Off screen, John reached over to apply a few last keystrokes to a programme he'd been running. Then, satisfied, he turned back to the comm. unit.

"I've just sent a more organised and condensed version of the package over. It should be in your inbox any moment." He didn't mention all the extra work he'd put into the data this morning, knowing that praise from his father was as likely as a sudden South Pacific snowstorm, and meant even less to him than it would, say, a cloud of gas out on the Scutum-Centaurus arm of the Milky Way.

A soft ping announced the e-mail attachment's arrival, and Scott, still seated despite numerous, fidgety attempts to switch places with his father, reached over to open up the document.

"Looks like it's all there, John. Thanks." Scott smiled at his brother, appreciating the astronaut's handiwork, even if their father didn't. Then, as an after-thought, he added, "You were right. I don't think I could have settled all this so fast."

If Scott thought he saw the corner of John's mouth twitch ever so slightly at that, he was certain he saw it fall back to a perfect poker face, when Jeff began speaking again.

"Alright. Well, if you've finished with Bersch with regards to intelligence gathering, I presume you've secured him so that he can't take news back to his employers?"

John almost frowned, but stopped himself just in time; reminding himself no emotion, give nothing to the enemy. Who was in this case, his father. For, that statement;

1. Implied his utter incompetence.

And,

2. Meant his father hadn't been listening properly when he'd said Ralph Bersch had a full sense of right and wrong, and had been gathering information against his employers.

However, calmly and very evenly John replied,

"Yes, Father. Ralph won't be a security problem anymore." _In fact, I think he probably owes us._

Having accepted the flash drive from Ralph late last night, John had set about keeping his promises to the soon-to-be-returned college student. First, he'd borrowed a computer from the café and, plugging in his PDA to run programmes and copy strings of code from, re-established Ralph as a student at New York University. He'd erased the absence records against the teenager, and replaced them with attendance at all missed lectures.

Next, he'd used a secure bank account (his own, this time) to transfer in money to pay off any debts that had been accumulated, and set up a direct order, for any remaining costs to be billed to the same account.

And then, fulfilling the last agreement, he'd asked Ralph to show him the project he'd last been working on. The pair had spent the following hour and a little, fixing any back-coding issues that had cropped up, and manipulating the data to give perfect results.

All promises kept and delivered upon, John had finally left in the early, still night-smothered, star-glinting hours of the morning.

"Very well, then. I want you to finish resting up, and then to return back home, John."

A silent nod, and a look (meant very definitely for Scott only) that Jeff couldn't fathom, met this statement.

"See you in a few hours, son."

"Yes, Father."

The comm. screen closed down to black, leaving both Jeff and Scott staring blankly at it. And then, as though an electric current had just passed straight through him, Scott jumped up, made his excuses and left.


	21. Falling Short

**21. Falling Short**

_The Brickyard, Indianapolis Speedway, day of Qualification;_

The final day of preparations before the last round of the American Super-Cars championship slipped and splashed into existence, bringing thick sheets of pelting rain, and horrendous stabs of driving wind. Nothing new at all, really.

Alan Tracy and his race engineer, Matt Harshaw, stood in the entrance to the team garage, staring up into wretched, smeared clouds and fist-sized drops of falling, driving weather.

"It's sure going to be fun out there, today, huh?"

Alan gave a wry, eyebrows raised smirk.

"It's been a fun weekend. Why would today be any different?"

Since the racing circus had arrived in Indiana, the whole state had been suffering from a washed out, murderously wet spell; plagued with never-ending downpour and savage cloudburst. It hadn't deterred the thousands of heavily fleeced, scarf-ed and anoraked spectators though. Nor the fired up, restless drivers.

Following the somewhat drier, penultimate race back in Illinois, the Championship was far from tied up, with the two leaders (Alan, and his almost, equally talented team mate, Tagen Hopkins) neck and neck at the top, and third, fourth and fifth all within stretched touching distance of one another.

"You never know, Al, it might taper off and subside a little before your run. Winner's bonus there, in this kind of weather."

Having stormed to victory, little more than the length of a popsicle stick ahead of Tag, at the preceding event, Alan had the favoured and privileged situation of being last to go out on his qualification lap, this time around.

In these kinds of conditions, with the weather grating the dark skies, and roughly pummelling the sodden, wet through earth, going last was swarmed and packed thickly with benefits. Primarily, the drawn-out period before Alan hit the track, gave more opportunity for the slanted, gashing rain to blow itself out. But with the prospect of such a calm arriving improbable and unrealistic, other just as gainful advantages had to be weighed in.

"I doubt it. You know as well as I do, the forecast says the weather's going to beat down all day. We're in this for the long-haul."

Before them, the first driver to set a grid-placing time roared past, setting off on his out-lap. The vivid blue and gold livery of the SBN-TouchRich Maserati flashed through the grey, wall of water, the engine snarling fierce, and the tyres grappling for contact with tarmac and not with settling puddles.

Waiting until the car was far enough away down the teeming pit lane to be heard again, Alan continued,

"Still, we can hope the fore-runners start to clear up a dry, racing line, and get some rubber down."

Muttering (something along the lines of _'Amen, to that'_), Matt gestured his driver back inside the garage, from where they'd watch the lap times come in, and finalise the set-up of Alan's car, before his own 'do or die' run.

Ensuing the continuous wet showers, the race track was now what the drivers called 'green'; a state where all of the rubber that had been worn away from blistering tyres and laid down on the track, giving grip, had been washed away, leaving the surface as slippery fast as a freshly cut ice rink. That, combined with the rainbow-spotted, standing water, called for an extreme wet set-up.

Deeply treaded tyres, and an elevated ride height helped the car to stick to the damp floor, and curb any aquaplaning. Despite this however, out on track, Gough, the first man to brave the twists and turns of the infield, short run-off section of the course, did exactly that in pursuit of a fast time and high grid position.

Bouncing the front end of his low bumpered hybrid over the red and white, striped curbs, Gough lost the rear end to a snaking stream of cold liquid, skidding round a full 360 degrees, before coming to rest off on a thin strip of muddy, grass verge.

Gathering himself, and revving all 12-cylinders, Gough stabbed the accelerator, sliding his Maserati back on to the tarmac, and brought it home in a giant, slumbering time of 02:43:54. Some minute and a bit off of dry weather pace, and far from a pole-sitting stint.

Thus, a decaying trend arose, with drivers tiptoeing and stealing about the wringing, waterlogged circuit, unable to avoid crippling pools of spray and flowing seas of movement. Losing the little amount of solid grip they could find, cars pirouetted around, before their anti-stall kicked in, the drivers selected first, and set off to go and look for the next spin.

As Alan was beginning to gear up and make ready, wriggling into his high-protection, heat resistant race suit, the first of the serious contenders posted a time.

M. Laert- 02:11:19.

Still a good thirty seconds from normal, waterless laps but so much closer to where the times ought to have been given current situations.

Matt, who'd been carefully watching the slowly falling times, each one fractions closer to being the day's fastest, reached out to place a large hand on his driver's shoulder. With Alan's attention on him, the race engineer yelled a little to be heard over the final, thunderous engine testing that mechanics were completing on the glinting Ferrari, next to where they stood.

"There's just six left to run, including you. Best time is 2 minutes, 11."

Alan nodded, thumbing together the Velcro tab at the neck of his suit.

"Keep me posted."

Outside the garage, fourth placed in the championship man, Gerald Lloyd boomed past, his wheels pounding down on the black, washed tarmac, rain lashing smash-mouth and barbarous against the car bodywork.

Within the protective shelter of the Pro-Drive pits, Alan gummed the red-orange earpieces of his radio, before inserting them, and connecting the attached thin, black cable up to a jack on the inner lining of his race suit. Once in his car, a wireless beacon would link him with the pit wall, and allow two-way communications.

As he picked up his fire-retardant balaclava, ready to pull the white cloth over his head, another new time flashed up onto the monitoring bank of hardwearing, plasma screens.

G. Lloyd- 02:11:03

Matt motioned for Alan to join him again, before saying (with somewhat less volume than before, as the engine testing had finished, and fresh, Firestone tyres were being put on much more quietly),

"Looks as though we've found our target time. Two front-runners have done a 2-11. If we can get sub two minutes ten, we'll be looking good."

Very much in a mindset ready to race, Alan gave a thumbs up, before asking,

"Right, then. Any points on the track I need to be watching out for?"

With sixteen drivers already having daringly navigated the watery, soaked track, a racing line (albeit patchy and inconsistent due to even now cascading torrents of clear liquid) had started to become apparent. Areas like the final, steeply banked corner were less slippery than say, the downwards-sloped run into turns 6 and 7. The former being a place to push hard, and gain a few tenths, and the latter a site to back off the gas, and be safe.

While the next car to go pulled out of the pit box right next to the packed, hard at work Pro-Drive carport, gunning its motor aggressively at the screeching, attacking elements, Matt jabbed a finger towards an electronic chart of the drenched circuit.

"I'd give the braking a couple of extra meters into the first corner, where most of the earliest guys to run got caught out, and spun. The first complex, three and four, are looking good though. The drainage is working well, but you'll see that on your out-lap. Other than that, I'd use caution going into 10 and 11, as it's looking a little slippery. For the final two corners, you should be alright to push hard."

Giving an affirmative, and Matt a macho, 'let's do this' back slap, Alan at last pulled his balaclava on, and accepted his red and yellow helmet. Tugging the weighty safety device over his head, and strapping it up tight, he approached his car, reaching out to take a hold on the carbon-fibre roof above the soldered-closed, driver's side door.

Looking about for his chief mechanic, Alan caught his eye, and received an inviting nod to enter the red and white vehicle. Securing his grasp on the bodywork just a little more, he levered his slim frame through the glassless window, and settled down into the 7,000 dollar, custom-moulded, bucket seat.

Once he was ensconced, and comfortable in the car, Alan nodded to one of his free, without a task technicians who came over to fasten the tough, long-lasting, 6-point seat restraints, as Alan pulled on his safeguarding gloves.

Whilst this was going on, another Championship contender had been out, and crept and skidded around the course, setting a time in the high two minutes tens, leaving just Tag to go before Alan's own shot at pole position. Near enough for the vibrations to rumble and drum through the concrete flooring, and up through its sister Ferrari's chassis, Alan's team mate prodded his accelerator pedal, and unhesitatingly slipped out into the downpour.

With minutes left before he hit the track, Alan's motor was started; the engine gnashing and snarling at the damp air, with barely harnessed power, and the exhaust spitting fire and passion as the throttle was gently teased and caressed beneath his booted, right foot.

Outside, a world away in striking rain and thrashing weather, Tag tumbled round the last corner and across the start/finish line, to post his qualification time. The screens in the garage flashed up,

T. Hopkins- 02:08:23

Fast, given circumstances, and provisional pole, unless Alan could better it.

Always the last person to have contact with his driver before they went out, Matt scribbled down the time on a sheet of blank paper, and stepped over to Alan's car. Rapping his knuckles against the top of the glossy helmet before him, the race engineer thrust the note in front of Alan, who read the slanted, thin writing, and gave an unruffled, cool-headed thumbs up.

Returning the gesture, Matt backed away, allowing a last mechanic to button up the netted meshing that overlaid the exposed, empty window, before Alan laid on the gas, and roared out of the garage.

With wind and rainstorm thudding down onto the car, like angry Gods bent on vengeance and retribution, visibility was almost nil, and his out-lap was about discovering just where it was safe to lay down power, and exactly which reference points still existed in the murky, cheerless environment.

True to Matt's predictions though, the last two turns were wet but not flooding and sopping with water, so as Alan rocketed past the start point of his qualification leg, it was with his foot firmly planted in, and without lifting.

The lap had to be smooth, if he wanted it to be blindingly, overwhelmingly fast.

And that being so, as Alan braked for the first corner and turned in (whilst the car understeered like a supermarket trolley), he just about held on, barely manipulating the wheel, other than when the car twitched sideways, desperate to spin and twist in the standing water. The tyres screamed and whistled as they caught hold and seized solid road, applying the power and ferocious drive of the bio-fuelled engine.

The perfect qualifying lap was about being _over _your personal limit, not on it. It was about racing with your heart; a constant pace where your mind is so much in the right, pinpoint-focused zone that nothing can distract.

With his head thinking of nothing but the next corner, Alan shifted gears, and squinted for the next braking point, sliding the car in to the apex, and out again, in a flurry of sprayed, kaleidoscopic puddle water, and specked, red paintwork.

On the outside pit wall, sat facing along the home straight, Matt, and Wyke Mulagen (Pro-Drive Racing's team principle) watched with sucked in, bubbling apprehension, the live television broadcast feed, and the telemetry data, as all Alan got in the corners was 500 yards of squealing understeer and armfuls of reverse lock as he struggled to keep the car pointed in the right direction, and moving ever forwards.

It was somewhat of a relief for everyone involved (including Virgil Tracy who was sat warm, and most definitely dry up in the hospitality box watching the action) when Alan came peeling around the final, banked Turn 14, without having spun out. As he slipped lower towards the inside wall along with the rushing, thrumming surface run-off, he was within spitting distance of Tag's time.

The dripping, storm-soaked Ferrari tore past the timing post, and Alan was swift to slow the racer down, before he hit a gravel trap and beached the car, or something.

Elsewhere, perched before a plasma, information screen, Matt waited patiently for Alan's lap to come up, his hand hovering over a certain yellow, labelled radio button, ready to pass on information to his driver. And then, the greyish, six-digit enlightenment appeared.

A. Tracy- 02:08:25

In the cockpit of the racing car, the radio crackled into being, static from the rainfall interfering and buzzing in Alan's ears.

"We're… P2, Al. Two hund…ths of a second… it, mate."

Despite the fractured, chinking relay, Alan got the message, and clicked his own transmit button twice by way of recognition.

_Late Saturday evening, Tracy Island;_

John Tracy finally returned home, bouncing his plane a little (twice in fact, although the second was more a jumpy, twitch than an action-packed, kangaroo hop) as he landed, some twenty-six hours after he'd first set off. As he exited the craft, having taxied it in to the moderately sized, 'official' Island hanger, Scott was there to meet him. His elder brother was stood before the toy-sized electric kart that would take them back up to the villa, and came with news.

As the pair returned back up the rough, leaves-and-grit trail, sharing stories, it became clear that something was very much afoot.

For their father had not only ordered that John set out from New York immediately, but had also instigated an imminent homecoming of the astronaut's two remaining, off-Island brothers. Virgil Tracy had received instruction that he was to fly back as soon as he possibly could, and that Alan was to follow the moment his Championship bid ended.


	22. Risk

**Sorry for continued delays. Been crazy-busy with pre-season hockey training, working, and A-Level results. I got AAA. Can't complain, I guess...**

**22. Risk**

_Late Saturday night, Island time, 'official' hanger;_

Virgil Tracy was not a happy man.

His wretched, downcast view came not in a fully signed up, lifelong pessimist, always waiting for the worst way; but in a right the damn now, life might as well have just punched you in the gut sort of way.

Nettled and irked enough to bite steel and spit nails, the young, brown haired pilot seethed as he left the cabin of the small corporate jet he'd flown back Island-wards; his temper like spume-ing, spindrift waves, ready to lay in to and smite whoever got in his way.

And, somewhat unfortunately, his two older brothers reached him first.

Scott and John had watched the trim, pointed, red-tailed craft bank around the island and come into land, from the subtly lighted, upper pool deck, before they'd gone to greet their younger sibling down in the black shadowed, bowled out cave hanger.

Gordon, who'd been stretched out on a zest-green, plastic sun lounger at the time, gazing in to the star glinting skies alongside his eldest brothers, had deigned it safer (having watched the fury with which the little plane had been landed) to stay put. Proved to be the wiser choice too.

Down below the villa, past the landing strip and in to the hanger, Scott had started forward towards the small craft whilst the engines were still whirring to a stop; the blades yet thudding slowly round and the boarding hatch unopened. His intentions had been to offer help and a solid listening post, but he'd halted some feet away when Virgil had almost thrown the steps down and not replied to his fairly cheery greeting.

Bubbling with unspent storms and thunder, Virgil chose not to acknowledge his standing brothers, pretending not to notice how heavily pregnant the air was with pent expectations and worry. Instead he latched closed the just descended boarding steps with echoing clasps and tough grips.

John, on the other hand, unlike Scott, hadn't made any kind of real gesture to join his brothers, nor to lend an ear to Virgil's cause, and was lent casually up against a tall, refuelling post, hands deep in his jeans pockets, and head down, staring at the floor. Despite the nonchalance however, his attention was quite visibly on both of his brothers.

Glancing between both of the waiting figures, wringing his hands and biting his lower lip hard enough to draw a thin red line of blood, Virgil finally controlled himself enough inside not to yell and scream, and make scorching hell of it all.

Right there and then his fury broke, the brewing fire in his red-burnt heart choked, blistered and died, along with the notion he'd hashed out over the Pacific to go and tell his father straight away (whether he be asleep, or not) what he thought of his frankly ridiculous ideas.

Gazing in the direct of first Scott and then John, the artist within the (sometimes hollow) shell of a pilot saw two different and then strikingly similar things.

He caught Scott's eye, and within swirling deep depths of clear blue was patient waiting and hard determination. Virgil knew then Scott wouldn't force him to mutter a word, but would be waiting when the time was right, with a cold beer and open mind.

With John, all he saw was the top of a pale blond head, but it was the things that were missing that gave the astronaut away. The lack of distractions around the distant figure, and the simple fact that he'd thought it important enough to have come with Scott and just _be _there, told Virgil that John too, would be waiting on the patio one evening for him.

For now though, all he said, in stage whispered rage, was,

"What the hell is Dad playing at?"

_Indiana, Team hotel, early Sunday morning;_

Finally, after many long days worth of straight, pelting rain, the sun had decided to push a couple of flaky, streaming clouds aside, and glance down upon the world. Its half-smile was full of soft gold, rippling oranges and slight brush-strokes of gentle yellows. Beautiful in a relaxed, amiable sort of way.

It wasn't the changed manner of the light, or the velvety warmth of the morning-sun on his face that woke Alan Tracy though.

On the bedside cabinet, next to where his head lay, his comm. device buzzed and vibrated twice, quietly demanding his attention. Still three-quarters asleep, Alan reached out a hand, grasping the small, black casing on his second attempt, before rolling over on to his back to squint at the small display.

The fuzzy letters bounced and squirmed across the screen, making little sense, until Alan blinked hard and sat up. Blond, bed-ruffled hair, stood in spikes, and blue eyes slowly de-misted.

More awake, the reason for his unexpected stirring became obvious. Tag had sent him a message. Thumbing the accept button, not a video or audio communication appeared as Alan had expected, but a written slip of information.

'_Hey, Al. Cn u meet me in pits, 8:00. Tag._'

Strange. Eight o'clock in the morning of race day was always the time of the mechanics' final debrief. There, they shared final snippets of advice, fabricated and smoothed out battle plans, and passed around a last little banter. The garages would be empty, except for the cars and equipment.

Shaking his head and a bit more of the sleep away, Alan realised this was probably the whole point.

The pits were possibly the only place where the team-mates could speak in private without the media and press interrupting, other than their own rooms in the motor home, which on race day were usually taken over by PR people, kicked out of their own more spacious offices by analysts and computer technicians. Despite the fairly large following of the American Super Cars Cup, budgets were tight, and savings made wherever possible.

Therefore, still somewhat puzzled by what Tagen Hopkins wanted to speak with him about, Alan replied with confirmation that he'd be there. Deciding he'd never now return to sleep, the young race driver headed towards the bathroom, and whatever the day held ahead.

_Outside pool deck, Tracy Villa, midnight;_

Back home, in Kansas, once the darkness settled much past mid evening it was too cold in October to sit outside and share tales and speculations. Here, out in the heart of the South Pacific, the weather held until the early hours of the morning, and often further.

Which was why the middle of the night found four brothers sat outside, talking.

Shaking his dark head a little, Scott sighed, and turned in his little, wooden, table chair to face Virgil head on. In appearance they were possibly the most similar of all the brothers; both with broad, good looks, and both well muscled and strong.

"Look, Virge, I know you're mad at Dad for dragging you home early, but…"

Clenching his fists, Virgil Tracy shook his head, before cutting in over his eldest brother,

"Damn right, I'm angry, Scott. Does he even have any idea how _important_ this race is to Alan? Someone should still be out there with the kid."

The ex-fighter pilot held his hands up, capitulation clear in his gesture and expression.

"You're preaching to the converted here. We," he hooked a thumb towards both John and Gordon who were sat around the table also, "tried to persuade Dad to let Gordon fly out instead, but he wasn't having it. Still, he's got his reasons."

To Scott's left, John scoffed quietly. The blond astronaut infrequently saw eye-to-eye with their father; his own astute, subtle methods continually rubbing Jeff Tracy the wrong way. So, shifting his weight slightly to lean further back in his chair, he answered Scott's questioning look.

"He always has his reasons, Scott. I imagine, what Virgil wants is to know those reasons?" His question was directed towards his younger brother, but without waiting for a reply, John continued. "Of course, you know that we have a lead on where these threats are coming from, but what you've probably not been told, is that Brains is working non-stop to locate the group. And getting close."

Nodding, Gordon picked up the narrative, finishing off succinctly and somewhat out of character, his frustrations and chagrin yet again getting the better of the just about recovered swimmer.

"So, naturally, Dad's preparing his best strike force. He wants _you_ all ready to storm in and save the day. Don't be surprised if Lady Penelope turns up on the Island in the next twelve hours or so, too."

For Gordon, since the high-speed hydrofoil accident some months ago, life had been a little like waiting in gym class to be picked for a team. He'd had to wait and watch as their father sent his brothers out, always being promised _next _time, but knowing he was the kid who'd be left till last, and still only reluctantly selected.

Suddenly sympathetic, instead of ragingly irritated, Virgil said,

"Dad must have a role in his plans for you too, Gordon, else he'd have let you go and join Alan. I won't… _We _won't let him brush you off again. Right, guys?"

The pilot looked to his other present brothers, where upon John shrugged his agreement, not looking up from where he was gradually pulling plastic edging off of the table. Scott however was looking directly at Gordon, weighing something up silently. Finally, he spoke.

"Of course we'll back you, Gordon, but you've got to promise us that you're up to whatever might lie ahead. As Field Commander, I can't be constantly looking over my shoulder to make sure you're okay. That's dangerous for everyone, and downright irresponsible if I let you go out there." He paused, studying his brother's face carefully. "And as your brother, I can't allow myself to let you risk your safety knowingly."

Standing up, Gordon went to stand before his eldest brother. His copper hair was as long as it had been in some time, with enough length to just about catch a breeze, and wave slightly in the moving air. Whilst swimming competitively, for his Olympic medals, and serving with the World Aquanaut Security Patrol his head had been shaven to a close crop; aerodynamic and practical.

Now, he reached out with an arm still marked from multiple surgeries and his stay in hospital, placing a hand on his eldest brother's shoulder.

"I know a lot's changed, Scott, but it's been a while, and I can do this. I know my limitations have been altered, but that doesn't mean I shouldn't be allowed to help. I know what's expected of me, and I can meet that standard. I wouldn't ask if I couldn't."

For a long time Scott had put upon himself the need to protect and shield his brothers, and, as they say, old habits die-hard. It was with a huge amount of inner turmoil and effort that he nodded slowly.

"Alright. I'll speak with Dad tomorrow morning. See if we can get you reinstated on regular duty."

It was with a lately rare, genuine smile that Gordon excused himself, and left his brothers to follow his retirement not long after.

_Indianapolis Raceway, four hours before final Race;_

Following communications and agreements made between the Pro-Drive Racing team-mates earlier in the morning, Alan Tracy entered into the crew's pit garages just after eight o'clock in the morning, much ahead of the time he usually hit the carport on race day. Outside a rosy-cheeked sun was warming up, and the slowly baking track tarmac, a marked difference to the wet, puddle-pocked road of yesterday.

Alan'd been made late by the first enthusiastic, fired up travellers on the roads, uncooperative traffic signals and a slight mishap involving a misty-smeared bathroom mirror and shaving (he'd nearly left his hotel room with a significant amount of patchy, half removed, morning-stubble still on his lower jaw, which was not a good look for a maybe-champion-to-be).

With his eyes yet focused on a breaking news story he'd picked up on the drive to the track, which was still playing out on his comm. device (one that might end up with his brothers' involvement), Alan called out ahead of himself, expecting an almost empty garage, and a reply,

"Hey, Tag. Sorry I'm late. Damn spectator-traffic again. So, what's the major, can't wait problem, then?"

At this last, the racer looked up, and saw… well, nothing.

Frowning a little, and checking the time, Alan called out again loudly, receiving no reply. Shrugging, he headed over to one of the side-mounted workbenches, and lifted himself up on to it. Returning his focus to the not-quite emergency broadcast, he figured he'd just have to wait it out, until Tag arrived. After all, if he'd been caught out by busy, half jammed roads, there was no reason his team-mate hadn't been too.


	23. One Sided War

**So, I relocated 150 miles north of my home to University two weeks ago. So far it's awesome; full of strange new ways of doing things, many drunken students, and a good handful of banter.**

**Sorry for all the delays though. This time they were fairly unavoidable.**

**23. One Sided War**

_Unknown location, Greece, same time as before;_

The central party, those who made up the core, order-giving part of the group, were spread far and wide across Greece. Some were in picturesque, whitewashed beach towns, and others in the grass slicked and fenced, lonely countryside. All part of the plan to keep the organisation safe, and secured from the outside world, and danger.

Some people said there was safety in numbers, but for the Greek faction, security came from knowing that members were far distances apart and (where possible) knew nothing of the others. Very few could betray one another, that way.

One of the scarce handful of people who had contact with almost the entire alliance was second in command, Corbin Dimitri Ricketts, who answered only to one other (the man at the heart of everything) and therefore valued himself above almost all else. Which was why he was so careful to shield himself from the outside world, speaking with few, and seeing in person even less.

Right now, he was waiting for the ball to begin rolling, for International Rescue to be dragged to its knees, and for it to rain fiery justice upon them all.

Stood before the projected wall display, showing the constantly updated World News feed, Ricketts was waiting upon a single telephone call. Arms folded across his chest, he stared at the broadcast, as it refreshed again. Finally… some _real_ news.

A large cargo ship transporting reportedly dangerous, chemical shipments had reported trouble some miles off of the south coast of England; a small, gashing wound in the side of the vessel, causing it to take on water slowly, and sink even more sluggishly. The captain said he expected to make port before any serious need of assistance, but had asked for the Coast Guard to be alert and ready… just in case.

Nodding appreciatively at the start of an orchestrated, impending disaster, Ricketts pulled his comm. device out of a trouser suit pocket, moments before it beeped indicating an incoming call. Thumbing the accept button on to 'audio only', he raised it to his ear.

"_Sir, Phase One has been initiated. Zeta-Unit is in place to commence Phase Two, as soon as the target approaches its destination._"

Keeping his eyes focused on the large screen before him, Dimitri Ricketts nodded and murmured softly, in unaccented Greek,

"_I anticipate word of your success._"

Then, he cut the connection, and called for a celebratory drink. For the battle had begun, and as of yet only one side was aware of this fact. Somewhat an unfair advantage there.

_Indianapolis Speedway, Pro-Drive Racing Pit box;_

Alan was still sat on the top of a silvery plated, mounted workbench ten minutes later, turning his comm. device over and over in his hands. The shiny plastic casing slid easily between his palms as his mind drifted elsewhere, out on to car-filled racetracks and sharp, red and white curbed bends. The young racer was already visualising his pathway around the circuit, the fastest line through corners and, most importantly, the best place on his opening lap to overtake Tag… who still hadn't shown up.

Levering himself up off of the metallic workbench, and striding over to perch on the bonnet of his car, from where he could see outside on to the pit lane, Alan flicked off the hold switch on his comm. and pulled up the contacts menu. Scrolling down to Tagen's entry, he depressed the call button, and waited.

Four rings, and then… looking as though he'd just woken up, with sleep ruffled, dark hair, and bare shoulders in view, Tag answered buoyantly, a grin on his face.

"Hey, Al." There was a pause as Tag squinted into the receiver on his end, and the smile dropped. "Um, you alright? Looks like you're in the garages, or something?"

Alan frowned, lightly shaded eyebrows knitting together in obvious confusion.

"Of course I'm in the garages, ass. You told me to meet you here, 8 o'clock sharp. I was calling to ask where the hell you are?"

Unaware of how closely he was imitating his team-mate's own confused expression, Tag shook his even now sleep riddled head, completely nonplussed as to what Alan was talking about.

"I'm in my hotel room, mate. I never asked you to meet me this morning." Despite being one of Alan's closest allies, Tag wasn't above ribbing the younger man when the right opportunity presented itself… like now. "I think you're losing it, Al. I mean, I'm not complaining, it'll make it easier to beat you today, but still, I reckon you're having hallucinations, or something. Maybe you should see a doctor."

Sometimes in life there's a point of realisation; the moment when you believe something so completely that it's like looking through freshly cleared smoke at a situation that's always been there, but just beyond the edges of unclouded vision. The comprehension that comes of that instant isn't always right, but at the time it doesn't matter much, because it's impossible to see past the newly found awareness.

Alan Tracy felt like that now.

"Wait. If you're still at your hotel room… You really are such a jackass sometimes, Tag. I can't believe you made me come out here so stupidly early. As your jokes go, this is pretty lame. It's not even funny. You're losing your touch."

Alan jabbed the red disconnect button on his handset, thrusting the device roughly into his pocket as he did so, cutting off the other racer's protests that he'd had absolutely nothing to do with the demanding messages Alan had received that morning.

More than a little chagrined, and now in an almost temper (mainly with himself for being so damn foolish as to believe Tag), Alan stormed out the back of the garages, heading for the team motorhome. Already beginning to plot a way to return the favour and payback his friend, the young driver brushed into the first of the mechanics just coming back from the morning debriefs.

Barely turning, Alan muttered his disjointed, hollow apologies; much too distracted to notice the somewhat puzzled look the technician gave him as he entered the pits from the direction Alan had just come from.

_A little further along the day, about 6:30AM, Tracy Island, Main living area;_

Despite the early hour, all four Island-situated brothers were up and very nearly wide-awake. The sun was already beginning to scorch the sky, vibrant and yellow, and birds had long since given up their morning chorus in search of protection from the heat, and of dark shade.

Jeff Tracy had opted to remain in his large, ornate four-poster bed, leant back on plumped cushions, and remote in hand to watch Alan's race, so only Scott and John had bothered to dress before entering the lounge. The former of the two had already been up for an hour, exercised and showered, and was drinking his second cup of coffee that day.

Virgil had at least pulled sweatpants on over his boxers before leaving his room, unlike Gordon who'd dragged himself, half naked, sheets trailing behind, to flop on the couch between his eldest two brothers. Shaking his head, John silently passed over his own mug of coffee to the swimmer, before getting up to pour himself another.

Virgil didn't manage to remain so quiet.

"For a boy who used to be up _before_ the crack of dawn to go swimming, you sure aren't a morning person anymore, Gordon."

A lofted middle finger served as a soundless reply before Scott intervened and flicked the plasma screen on with a swift press on the remote, bringing up the beginning coverage of Alan's race, and stunting any impending retorts.

_Indianapolis Raceway, the Grid, not long before Race start;_

Brute force-and-ignorance cars lined the grid, from sleek, pulled back Ferraris, to grizzly, barely restrained Vipers. Everywhere one looked there were cars, heavy equipment, beautiful girls and spirited drivers, who were all cocky confidence and killer smiles. And none more so than Pro-Drive Racing's two, who were sat prettily at the right end of the grid, positions one and two.

Earlier disagreement forgotten, both Alan Tracy and Tagen Hopkins were enjoying every moment of the last round of the American Super Cars Championship, completely taken in by all the thrumming excitement, the feeling like stolen kisses and the heady, first strands of love.

Stood beside their cars, fire-retardant race suits hanging about their waist, and branded drinks bottles clutched in one hand, they cut sharp figures like movie dashing, top gun, ace fighter pilots… Only more real, and more sponsor pleasing.

They were being hounded by the media (naturally), desperate to know if the pair had discussed the possible outcomes, who had the better race strategy, and how they rated their own and others chances.

A well-seasoned reporter, working for American Sports International, a live Internet feed broadcaster, pushed his way in to Alan, microphone and live video camera ready.

Whilst the presenter waited for Alan to finish having a murmured conversation with his race engineer, Matt Harshaw, the cameraman panned around the grid slot, where a team of mechanics were working on making final adjustments to the vivid, bright car and warm, rubber tyres.

Alan's Ferrari was like a daring, slashed to the thigh, halter-neck, red gown, exuding glamour and stardom; its every crease, and every angle devoted to controlling air flow over the body, and gaining those precious extra few milliseconds.

Seizing his chance as Alan paused in his conversation, the reporter thrust his microphone in front of Alan, and began to speak,

"Alan, Mike Cowller, live for ASI. How are you feeling about the race today?"

Used to the common questions that got asked of him every race, the reply fell easily off of the young racer's tongue. Whilst speaking he handed his drinks bottle over to Matt, and began to pull the top half of his race suit on, pushing his arms into the sleeves, and pulling the zipper up.

"Good, thanks. The weather's a lot better today, and the track looks to be a lot more grippy, so hopefully I can get a good start, and maybe beat Tag into the first corner if things go well."

Nodding, as the camera focused in on Alan, and then back to his car, Cowller continued,

"So, is that the plan for today? Be first out of Turn 1, and lead from the front?"

Accepting the radio wires handed to him from one side, Alan began to gum the red-orange earpieces ready to insert them, as he replied.

"Yeah, that's the plan. We'll see though. I imagine Tag's going to be getting away as fast as he can too."

Gesturing over to where Alan's team-mate was speaking to his own little crowd of journalists, Cowller formed his next question, aware of the jostling going on behind him, as others tried to get close enough to thrust their microphones in, and alert to the fact that his time was running out.

"Obviously if the Championship ended now, Tag would take away the winner's trophy. Do you think there's any possibility that he'd forfeit his own race to end yours?"

This last drew Alan's attention enough that he looked up directly at Mike Cowller instead of his camera, surprise written across his face.

"You mean would Tag purposefully take me out? No." Then, more emphatically, he repeated himself. "No. We both want to settle this on the track, which means going the full race distance. We'll go wheel-to-wheel and trade a little paint, for sure if we have to, but no… No intentional crashes."

Reaching out to pat Alan's suited shoulder, the reporter finished up before moving on, with a brief '_best of luck' _and_ 'have a good one'_.

Shaking his head, Alan reached out for his helmet, pulling it on over his head, and blocking out the scores of media still milling about, leaving Matt to turn away the last of the press still wanting a word with the young driver.

The three-minute warning played out over the commentating system as Alan levered himself into his car through the cut-away window, and his mechanics began removing equipment from the track.

All that was left now was to start the engine up, watch for the lights, and make it to the finish line first.

_Tracy Island, same time, main living area;_

They all watched with baited breath, silent prayers, and clenched fists as the five starter lights blinked to red, and then out. Commentators roared the race away (yelling '_Go! Go! Go!'_) as all the cars left the grid successfully and powered down to the first corner; two red Ferraris neck and neck at the front.


	24. Impact

**24. Impact**

The red lights overhead flashed off, starting the final, decisive round of the championship as bio-fuel powered cars growled and jumped forward, launching off of the grid in a blur of bold, deep colours and snarling engine notes.

Alan, booted foot planted firmly on the accelerator pedal and upshifting swiftly, surged away from the start line, immediately beginning to gain on Tag; catching him up hand over fist down the remaining section of the home straight. Elsewhere, commentators excitedly babbled away, describing the unfolding, first scenes of the race to viewers around the world.

_'And there you go! All the cars are away safely from the grid, and on the long run down to the first corner. Car number 43, Alan Tracy, has had the better start of the two championship contending team-mates, and… Oh! He's tried to go round the outside of Tagen Hopkins into Turn One… And… He's made it! Tracy's got his nose ahead, but Hopkins' has the better line for the second bend…'_

Never more than the width of a cigarette paper apart, the two leading Ferrari's snaked their way around the opening section of the lap, trading places constantly, faster than the graphics computers could keep up with. Now, the position charts had Alan just ahead, as the cars charged down a short straight side by side.

Wyke Mulligan, owner of the Pro-Drive Racing Team, had always said both Alan and Tag were welcome to race each other (encouraged it at times, even) so long as it was never to the detriment of the team as a whole. And, with the Team Championship wrapped up and decided some rounds ago, the young racers were pounding towards the next corner, with only one aim in sight. Get round the bend first, before the other.

On the outside line for the turn, Alan knew he'd have to brake later than his team-mate, carrying more ferocious speed into the apex, if he wanted a chance of exiting in that coveted first place. So, as they neared the curve, and fluorescent marker boards flashed past (300 metres… 200 metres… 100 metres…), Alan sensed rather than saw Tag slow, whilst he continued travelling forwards at pace. Seventy-five metres from the heart of the arcing piece of track, Alan stood on his brake pedal, feeling the G-forces compressing his chest back into his seat, crushing breath from his body.

And then, in less time than it took to blink, the chance of pulling ahead was gone, as his car squealed wide and off onto the tarmac run-off area, unable to slow enough to grip the road and make the turn.

Swearing viciously, the young driver gunned his car forward off of the safety zone around the corner, back in pursuit of Tag, who'd gained a second or so through Alan's mistake.

So it continued for some laps; the two startling red Ferraris chasing each other around the track, pulling out an inconceivable lead over the rest of the field, but never more than two or three seconds separating themselves.

Back at the pit wall, Matt Harshaw was watching intently as the lap times came in, and the video feeds played out over the wall of screens before him. Sighing as Alan yet again failed to get close enough to pass Tag for the lead of the race, he reached out and pressed the comm. link to the car.

"Al, we're getting nowhere. The cars are just too similar for you to overtake on the track, unless Tag makes a mistake."

Muffled by phenomenal engine roar, Alan replied back, his voice faltering and broken as he concentrated on not losing ground to his team-mate.

"I could have… told you that. What are you… suggesting, then?"

Waiting for the tell-tale clicked released of the transmitter by Alan, Matt's hand hovered over his own button, solution ready.

"Tag's going to be pitting one lap before you. Stay in touch with him until then, put your foot down on _your_ in-lap, and we can take him during the first set of pit stops. We'll give you a short second stint, so you'll be stopped in the garage for minimal time."

The comm. clicked twice, by way of Alan's recognition, which just left Matt to slate up a means and tactic exceptional enough to win.

_Within Pro-Drive Racing's computer system, as the race continues;_

It lay, sleeping like a twitching dragon, red-scaled with danger, and with rutted, scabrous wings folded, not yet unleashed. Birthed only that same day, dragged willingly into a world of terabytes, memory banks and virtual cyberspace, it hatched slowly, breaking through stiff coverings unhurriedly.

Planted, it rested waiting, internal chronometer slowly counting down, each 'tick' a forever pause, delaying only the predestined future. And then…

When the time was near, the slight near-devil unleashed its power and not so faraway, effect happened, and a life became endangered.

_Indianapolis Speedway, following on swiftly;_

With warming sun softly rubbing on the tarmac, the black strip grew faster, offering up more grip and security to those who drove upon it, and consequently quicker lap times. Still, Alan Tracy and Tagen Hopkins pushed further forwards, widening the nearly insurmountable gulf between themselves and the cars behind to an even greater lead. The distance separating the team-mates however remained close, the pair always within a stretched reach-and-grasp of one another.

For Alan it had to be that way, to give him a Plan C way to pass Tag for first place during the pit stops (Plans 1 and 2 having been based during qualification and the opening lap, and having failed miserably). He kept close to the back of the leading Ferrari, all the while both at crazy angles, all the while both under control.

So, it came somewhat as a heart-wrenching, kill your breath, swift shock to the young, following driver, when his team-mate's speeding car ploughed off of the folded ribbon of track and buried itself, nose first, deeply in to a tyre wall.

A strangled half-cry caught in Alan's throat, as he watched, a mere spectator and unable to help, as Tag's car didn't coast around then next corner as it should have, but continued in a strange, half-arc, barely scrubbing off any speed before cannoning into the banks of hard, rubber tyres supposed to brace impacts.

The distinctive red bonnet disappeared under the conveyer belt-restrained wall, arrowing in powerfully, straight and true. The body of the race car followed, until it finally came to rest, the foremost row of the stacked tyres resting atop the middle of the roof.

And then, Alan was past the scene, continuing on his own lap, now furiously worried. Stabbing his communications button, he all but yelled across the radio to his crew.

"What just happened? Is Tag alright? I mean, what the hell, guys?"

Because after all, Tagen Hopkins was a good driver, and didn't make mistakes on simple bends. _And_, broken cars were always a worry for the man driving its twin.

The reply was static though, expect for a brief,

"Be with you in a moment, Al."

Said all to calmly to mean good news.

Alan had only been young when both his mother and his paternal grandfather had been removed from his life, but he remembered with movie-shot clarity, the passive, unwavering voice his father had used to tell him. Even then at tender infancy he'd known there was something not right about his father's tone. It was too placid, too cold and detached to mean anything good. And now, his race engineer, his friend, was using that same _voice_ about yet another person he cared about.

Swallowing the fear bubbling within, threatening to overflow, Alan focused only on keeping his car on the road, not daring to look up at the big, plasma screens surrounding the circuit, which no doubt were showing replays of the incident over and over to the now excited crowd. A brief radio message (_'Pace car's out this time around. It'll pick you up at the front. Stay behind and focused.'_) was the only thing that cut through into Alan's now pin-point small world.

Only two things mattered there. One, to keep _himself_ out of the walls, and two, that Tag couldn't be anything but okay.

Elsewhere, circuit marshals rushed over to the stricken, crashed car to offer what aid they could until the cranes and paramedics arrived. One fluorescent overall-ed worker managed to squeeze himself up against the buckled tyres enough to peer inside the car, and shout through to the injured driver.

"Hey! Hey, can you hear me there? We're going to get your car out of here, and we'll be with you in no time. Just sit tight. Don't worry about a thing, huh?"

The reassurance was more of a bolster to himself however, as to the rest of the marshals (who'd been beginning to pull the thick, rubber front belt free from the top and sides of the car) he said,

"Driver's forward against his harness. There's no response, so we can assume he's unconscious, okay? We need to get this…" He gestured at the car, "…out of here as fast as we can. Screw the cranes. We… _He_ might not have that time to waste."

Another, who wore a personalised safety jacket reading '_Doug_', nodded his agreement. Directing the remaining stewards to various points and jobs, the team of staff who'd all been locally positioned on the circuit before the accident, started on working the vehicle free of its prison.

Slowly, as a rumbling mobile crane lurched towards the scene, the marshals edged the car backwards out of the wall, carbon fibre bodywork catching and tearing as it was removed from its firm, cocooning resting place. Some worked to hold the front section of the wall up, and free from the crashed vehicle, whilst the rest gently tugged and pulled on the frame, easing it clear inch by slowly released inch.

As the circuit's medical car reached the scene, via the long, side access road that ran the vast perimeter of the track, bringing paramedics and much needed aid, Tagen's car tore free, a mass of crumpled metal and composites, the front folded like scrunched up tissue-paper. (By the time the slowly, lumbering winch arrived, its services were no longer required, marshals have successfully gone above and beyond their job description, for which they were later highly praised and rewarded).

Whilst two medics vaulted from their large, converted SUV and ran towards the now accessible driver and car, on track Alan Tracy, leading the field behind the pace vehicle, filed past the crash site. He'd still received no more word on what had caused the accident, nor on how Tag was, leaving that sick, heart-clenching feeling firmly in place, clamped down on his worried thoughts as he patiently travelled round and round the track.

Overhead the medical helijet had taken to the blistering skies, sunlight glinting off of its orange painted exterior as it circled high overhead… just in case. And, back down beside the crashed and deformed Ferrari, the doctors sprinted over, supply packs slung over their shoulders, jigging up and down with their each step. Hillarie Stepson and Jason Morton made up Indianapolis' rapid response team for races, so it was they who reached the unconscious driver to provide aid first.

Panting a little from the short run, Hillarie dropped her bag beside the driver's welded shut door, before unpinning the remaining netting and leaning through the empty window, reaching out to check for a pulse below the young driver's somewhat pitted helmet. Pushing the helmet's tinted visor upwards, she called out to the driver.

"Hey? Tagen? Can you hear me, honey?" Reaching for his limp hand, she grasped it gently, continuing on. "Just squeeze my hand a little, if you can hear me, Tagen."

Stepson was a 36 year-old mother of two young children, with a plump face, curving figure and caring, green eyes. Now, pulling back out of the car, she turned to speak with her colleague, who was just finishing with the marshals, organising for the retrieval of a laser cutter, to remove the door panel. Calling out to Jason, she said,

"No response and the helmet is fairly dented. I think we might have a significant head injury here. Pulse is weak, too. We need to get this show on the road."

Nodding, Jason signalled over the marshal who'd returned with the cutters, directing him and the trained team he brought back, to begin the removal of the side bodywork. To Hillarie, he glanced upwards, saying,

"Air evacuation, you reckon?"

Beginning to pull equipment from her medical pack, the doctor nodded gravely.

"I think we're going to need all the speed we can get."

_Still at Indianapolis Raceway, shortly after;_

Sometimes action can take a while to start, but in emergencies, when real lives are in danger, action seems to somehow happen faster than it seems possible at times. Moments after the call was put through to have the medical helijet landed and prepped for transport, the race was red flagged. All the cars still on track, following the pace vehicle around the circuit, pulled into their respective pit garages, the race over and done with. Then, once the track was cleared, the air ambulance landed next to the crash zone, bringing more trained medics, equipment, and the fastest possible way to hospital.

Seventeen minutes later, found Tagen Hopkins being rushed into the emergency room of the local general hospital, his life hanging from a fragile, very breakable thread, and Alan standing next to his own car, wondering what the hell just went wrong.


	25. False Reports

**So, I'm playing for two different 1XI teams whilst at Uni. Makes for a confusing busy time. Yet, I'm actually writing more than I ever did back home. Shrug.**

**25. False Reports**

Just an hour ago, everything had been right, been excellent even, in Alan Tracy's world. And now… Well now, it just plain wasn't.

It felt like everything (his life, those around him, the whole world even…) had been put through a spin-cycle, viciously thrust and heaved about until up was down, and nothing made much sense, except for that awkward aching deep inside. For that, there was an explanation, a reason, but as of yet no solution.

Not so long before that you could still count the minutes that had past, Alan Tracy had been just about to race his best friend for the American Super Cars Championship, an all-or-nothing race. It was supposed to be thrilling to the climatic end, a real crowd-pleasing event, whereupon one of the pair would have been crowned champion and the other a consolation prize of runner-up.

But, things hadn't followed the path they should have, and presently his best friend was on his way to hospital (hell, possibly dying, for all he knew) and Alan was still stood, overall-ed and shocked, in his race garage.

Climbing down from the brightly illuminated and yet full Pro-Drive Racing pit wall, Matt Harshaw awkwardly stumbled over to where his young driver, his charge, stood. Reaching out to place a large hand on Alan's shoulder, he pushed the visor up on the racer's helmet, where it still sat covering his face, hiding his expressions, his feelings.

"Hey, mate. You in there? Al?"

It took a long, slightly worrying moment, but Alan replied, his voice quiet and shaken.

"Yeah." Then a little more confidently, as he seemed to come back to himself, reaching up to unclip the safety strap beneath his chin, "Yeah. Have you heard anything about Tag? Have they said anything over the radio? Is he alright?"

Matt's low sigh and apologetic shrug didn't do much to inspire faith and belief.

"Sorry, Al. I can't tell you much. All we know is that Tag was unconscious when they took him out of the car, and last we heard the situation was the same. The medics reported a possibly serious head injury. His crash helmet's pretty banged up apparently. I haven't seen it though to comment, everything is with the ASCC officials. Or at least it will be very shortly."

As per regulations, following a significant accident the American Super-Cars Championship Committee seized control of the vehicle(s) involved to perform their own investigations as to the cause. This way they could prevent teams from continually fielding unsafe, flawed technology.

Alan, biting his lip against emotions and doubts that were creeping up again, nodded his understanding. The pair stood in silence for a little longer, side by side, unsure of what to say or to do, watching as other teams began packing up equipment outside other garages. Everyone was more subdued than normal, acutely aware of how wrong today's race had gone.

Finally Alan patted his now removed helmet absently, shrugged, and said,

"I think I'm going to go and get changed, and then, if it's alright, head down to the hospital to wait for any news."

Matt squeezed his driver's shoulder, giving a tight-lipped smile, before replying with a small nod.

"Sure thing, Al. But, find me when you're ready, and we'll go together. There's not much I can do here, until we get the car back, and that's not going to be till at least late evening."

The reasoning, so Matt could keep an eye on the disquieted and unsettled racer, went unsaid.

_Not far off of the south coast of England, around about the same time, or a short while before;_

Some miles to the east of _The Patra Rose_, the chemical tanker ship that had sprung a (sizeably mammoth) leak and was slowly sinking, another vessel failure was being orchestrated.

Acting on commands sent from far-off Greece, two men aboard a cruise ferry set about putting into action, hatched plans. The overall picture was very simple; cause two high-level, attention-demanding accidents in close proximity to each other, and watch the local rescue services flounder and try and stumble their thick, inept way through.

The passenger ship they were aboard was returning from a two weeklong jaunt down in southern Spain, and the uppermost edges of Morocco, where the travelling boarders had been enjoying blistering-hot sand beaches, open-air markets and the odd, raucous night out in the towns. She was due to dock in wet, rain swept Southampton, before setting off again in just six days time.

The men (who'd volunteered for their roles in the act willingly, and fought for them even) had taken up their residence onboard the boat, and quietly hidden in the background of all the excited activities and events taking place over the past fortnight, drawing little attention to themselves. They'd watched the make-up pretty and feathered showgirls perform each night, cradling glasses of cheap Scotch or Whiskey until the early hours of the morning where upon they'd teeter clumsily (but never too drunkenly) back to their rooms, to sleep off the alcohol for most of the following day.

Last night, they'd been conspicuous only in their absence from the stage area and bar, having spent a night very sober, running and re-running over today's plans, which were about to be set in irreversible motion. They'd also ventured down into the prohibited areas below deck, after dark the previous evening, where they'd located the main fire control station.

From there they'd disabled the automatic sprinkler and fire suppressant systems, meaning to cause as much difficulty and trauma as possible, when the signal came.

And now, a message, reading only a selection of seemingly random numbers and letters, some capitalised and others not, had arrived on an organisation owned and provided comm. device. Pulling a folded leaf of paper from his pocket, one of the men checked the details of the message off against the original, before turning to his companion and nodding.

Primed to start operations, both shouldered unmarked rucksacks and left the twin room in which they'd been residing. From their cabin on the third deck, they worked their way lower, heading down stairwells to the bottom-most level where passengers had right of entry, and beyond, ducking under swinging, chained up signs reading 'Crew Only' and 'No Access'.

Down in the crew's quarters, the pair weaved down long white corridors, pausing every so often to open up a maintenance closet. Here, where the employees stayed and rested, the linen and cleaning cupboards were left unlocked, with the intention being that crew could help themselves to clean bedding, and save on the cleaners' time and jobs.

So, with the invitation for access practically jumping up and down in neon bright colours, within each of the ceiling high lockers, the duo planted a small, soon to be raging fire, spreading lighter fluid around the enclosed area, before lighting a match and throwing it in. It was a primitive, rough-hewn way of starting a blaze, but with security levels high, and bag checks being carried out on nearly everyone at ports, it was the only way possible. As it was, they'd had to pour the flammable liquids into shower gel and shampoo bottles, just to get them aboard.

Finally with 14 fires lit, and beginning to burn, the Greek pair edged their way back up to the passenger decks, to await crew-delivered information that a fire had started, and that an evacuation was imminent.

_Tracy Island, shortly after the racetrack accident;_

They'd all watched, with hitched, frozen breaths and clenched fists as Tagen Hopkins' car had first ploughed off of the Indianapolis raceway, and then as the young team-mate of their brother had been airlifted to hospital.

The charged vim with which the presenters had relayed known details about the chilling accident, and the condition of the driver hadn't passed unnoticed by the four, currently Island residing brothers.

Virgil, slow to anger, but a towering mountain of rage when provoked enough, fumed quietly. Standing up, he strode over to the wide, glass windows, glaring out at the sunny, morning-happy Earth outside, before coming back to lean on the back of the chair he'd previously occupied, trying to work some of the pent frustration out. Gesturing at the broadcasted image before them all, he sighed angrily.

"What a bunch of jerks. You'd almost think they were enjoying this whole drama. Don't they realised that's a real person, with friends… and _family._"

Scott nodded his agreement, standing to join his middle brother behind the seating.

"Probably. But they're not going to let that get in the way of a few extra good ratings." Then, catching his brother's disgusted look, he added, "Which makes them even bigger sleazebags. But that's the media for you; if it'll get them an extra few column inches in the morning papers, it's good news. Doesn't matter how terrible a disaster they might be reporting on."

Disheartened somewhat by the events of the past half an hour, Virgil was no less appeased by Scott's like-mindedness than he'd been before, and turned to leave the room, muttering something about occupying himself until news came about.

It was then the two standing brothers, and John, who'd been still sat watching the television but listening intently to the exchange going on between Scott and Virgil, noticed Gordon edging back into the room. At the trio of questing looks he suddenly received, the swimmer held aloft his grey metal comm. device in one hand, the other self-consciously flattening his mussed hair from the hooded top he'd just pulled over his previously bare torso.

"I kind of thought Alan might call. So, I thought I'd fetch this. Just in case, and all." Then, "Wasn't expecting the Spanish Inquisition when I returned, though."

Unusually, it was John that answered his younger brother, looking up and behind himself as he did so.

"It's alright, Gordon. Just, I don't think any of us noticed you'd left."

Virgil, catching John's eye, and intent (to stop the steam-train of thought Gordon might have been having, that they were all checking up on him, still), said,

"And we all know when you mysteriously appear somewhere, there's normally trouble afoot for someone."

Either oblivious to the transparent attempt to make believe that his brothers hadn't been a little retrospectively concerned, or choosing to ignore it, Gordon slumped back down on the couch next to John, stretching out languidly.

"Yeah, you're really funny, Virgil." The aquanaut paused to scan the current broadcast, finding only a grocery store advert, promising less than half price beef steaks, and buy one get one free frozen pizzas. "But aside from your shoddy efforts at comedy, has there been any news yet?"

Shaken heads were his only response.

The next twenty minutes drifted past like a thunder-laden storm cloud, dark, loping heavily and full of bad omens, and it was Gordon's cell that finally broke the silence, vibrating and chirping simultaneously. The swimmer snatched the small piece of machinery up, glancing at the caller ID, and ignoring his suddenly very interested brothers. Thumbing the accept call button, he answered,

"Hey, Al. You alright?"

On the small screen, an image of Alan formed, a few square centimetres across. The youngest Tracy looked tired and worn, the earlier cocky, killer smiles gone from his face and replaced with lines of deep worry, and concern.

"No… Yes… No, I don't know. I mean, I'm fine, but I take it you saw what happened?"

Gordon shrugged apologetically, a small grimace marring his tanned features.

"Yeah, we were watching the broadcast. Has there been any news?"

The transmitted image of Alan shook its head, looking even more downcast if possible. In the hospital people busied themselves, bustling past Alan, who'd stood off against a wall to place his phone call.

"Not really. I'm at the hospital now, and Matt's just gone to try and get more information. The doctors have listed his condition as stable, but there's a hell of a lot of commotion going on over someone who's stable. He took a pretty big knock to the head, and I think that's what they're most concerned about." Then, processing the last thing his brother had said, Alan frowned. "Are the other's with you? Like, with you now?"

In answer to the question Gordon ducked out of view momentarily, allowing his brothers stood behind him to be seen. Then bobbing back into the picture, his brows knitted together a little.

"Yup. Why do you wan- "

He was cut off by a shrill siren that suddenly wailed from the wall speakers around the room. Beside him John stood up, immediately heading for their father's desk and computer system, Scott not more than a couple of paces behind.

"Hang on, Al…"

Through his own comm. device Alan watched, a little anxious and envious at the same time, as Gordon turned to look over to his two eldest brothers, who since been joined by Virgil. A signal from Scott was all the prompting the aquanaut needed. As he turned back to face Alan, the youngest caught the look on his face.

"You've got to go, huh?"

For the second time, Gordon shrugged regretfully.

"Yeah, I have. But, it's not as if I'm likely to be leaving base, is it? So, send word as soon as something new happens. I'll keep you updated too."

Alan smiled stiffly.

"I will. Keep safe, Gordon."

With a returned, very similar sentiment, Gordon cut the connection, and headed over to the desk, where upon their father had just arrived, and action seemed to be happening.


	26. Adjustments

**26. Adjustments**

_Tracy Island, Jeff Tracy's desk, continuing on;_

Jefferson Tracy had been quietly cocooned within fine cotton sheets, and rich, silk bed wear when the emergency alarms had sounded. Always an early riser, as business waited for no man's rest these days, what with international time differences and 24-hour running systems, he'd made a special effort this morning to be awake and very much coherent, so as to watch his youngest son's motor race.

It was an important meet, akin to that of his next youngest's Olympic debut, that had business (public and 'family') allowed, he'd have gone to attend in person. But, with situations as precarious as they were, it just hadn't been a feasible idea.

Instead, he'd settled himself on feathered pillows, programmed the broadcast onto the large, wall-mounted plasma screen in his room, and rung for Kyrano to bring a pot of coffee and some French toast up to his rooms.

Jeff could have joined his sons down in the main living area, where no doubt they too had gathered to watch their brother's crucial, end-of-season event, but somehow he'd thought they'd appreciate the moment more without him around; so they didn't feel bound by etiquette and manners, and could 'whoop' and possibly curse at the screen, to their fullest content.

Comfortably positioned within his bed, fed and watered, Jeff had enjoyed the opening stint of the Champion-deciding race, commenting to himself on how efficiently, and apparently effortlessly, his son controlled his race car, travelling at speeds far beyond those of everyday life. Perhaps, it seemed, he'd not been giving Alan enough credit where it was due, with regards to his choice of pastime.

It had come as a shock, as it had to the majority of the millions of people who'd been viewing the race live, when his son's team-mate had careered into the vast, conveyor belted, tire barriers. Knowing Alan was still out there, monotonously navigating the track, had wrapped an ice-cold hand about his heart that had only released the viciously pounding muscle when the race had been called off to allow better medical access to the reportedly, critically injured driver.

With nothing constructive likely to come from continued viewing of the now, very repetitive broadcast, Jeff had at this point removed himself from the warm, silken comfort of his bed, showered and dressed.

Thus, when the broadcast (which he'd left playing, just in case) cut off, and the emergency signal had rendered itself across the expansive screen, flashing and glowing for attention, the Tracy patriarch had been ready, and in a suitable state to immediately attend to the pressing matter down at his desk.

There, in the oak panelled room, with morning sunlight bathing slithers of the flooring in golden warmth through the tall, plexiglass windows, he'd found all four of his remaining sons gathered. John had seated himself at the computer workstation, his intense blue eyes focussed narrowly on the screen before him, no doubt accessing the International Rescue network, and his own 'bird's data stream.

Scott had set up post at his brother's right shoulder, his forehead creased deeply in thought. Every so often the ex-fighter pilot would mutter something to John, who'd nod or shake his head in return. The other two were stood a little further off, giving the eldest pair room to work. It was Virgil, who'd suddenly become acutely conscious of his _very_ casual attire, that noticed Jeff first.

A single word from him brought both Scott and John's heads snapping up. The latter jumped up as quickly as if someone had just poured a cup of frosted ice down his back, stepping away from the console he'd been working at, whilst Scott stood his ground ready to debrief their father. Choosing to ignore the uneasy action, Jeff strode around to the other side of his desk, settling down into the large chair his astronaut-son had just vacated. Looking from the output of information running across his monitor, to his eldest son, he said,

"What's the news, Scott?"

Once a hotshot, Air Force pilot, and one time a substitute parent to his four younger siblings, the now-rescuer took to the fore.

"It's a bit of two-ended stick this one, Father. A chemical tanker's torn a gash in its side a few miles southeast of Southampton, England, and is taking on significant amounts of water. Having alerted the coast guard, the captain had thought he'd make port, but latest news is that's not the case."

Raising a large hand, Jeff halted the explanation mid-flow.

"Surely local rescue services can deal with this, Scott. It's not a problem we need to get involved with. I presume the cargo is currently intact, seeing as there are no reports of a major spillage?"

"Yes, the cargo is holding, sir, but that's only one half of the issue." Scott continued, his eyes set seriously. "There's a cruise ferry nearby to the tanker, that's discovered a serious fire onboard. As we speak they're loading passengers into lifeboats, and launching them free. The local authorities have directed all available personnel to assist there. However, if the chemical ship were to go down, it'd risk releasing its load into the surrounding waters. Extra aid is over two and a half hours away, and the tanker'll sink not long before they reach the scene."

Steepling his hands on the broad desk before him, Jeff looked up and towards the organisation's main engineer. Scrawny, nervous and brilliant, Brains had shuffled into the room half way through Scott's sketch of the facts, listening intently, and now, mind racing, he was beginning to outline solutions to the problems in his head. Almost visibly seeing the cogs turning in the genius' mind, Jeff came to a decision.

"First things first, can we reach the danger zone in time to do any good?"

Virgil, broad, powerful, and incredibly compassionate, glanced up towards the white plastered ceiling briefly, seeing sprawling maps, and diagrams.

"At top speed, Two could be there in one hour and thirty-one minutes."

Quietly, head lowered, John spoke out then.

"_The Patra Rose _has estimated she's got about two hours, maybe a little more before they go under. Port's about two and three quarter hours away."

Nodding, Jeff glanced back to the still scrolling data, thinking briefly about the annoyance of not having John in space interpreting the stream before it reached his desk. Pushing that aside, he called upon the mastermind behind International Rescue's vast technology.

"Brains, what can we do to help here?"

Fiddling with the hem of his crumpled shirt and blinking heavily (probably the young man hadn't slept much the past night, too occupied and distracted by tinkering around with whatever his latest project was), Brains voiced his ideas.

"U… using the c... composite foam solution, ah, d… developed from the USS Edmonds r…. rescue, Thunderbird, ah, Four could be d… deployed to fill the torn h… hold, and, ah, prevent f… further water intake. F… from there the, ah, s… ship should make port and c… can be properly, ah, fixed once d… docked."

Lining up the edges of papers on his desk, a trademark signal that a decision had been reached, Jeff said,

"Alright. I want you to load up whatever equipment is needed, Brains. I want to be ready to launch in ten minutes."

The angular, slightly gawky scientist left the room immediately, setting about his tasks, leaving Jeff Tracy to survey his remaining sons. Shifting emotions and sentiment aside, the father of five went with his instinct, trusting it to bring his sons home safely.

"John, I want you to remain here, to help run Base Command. You can comprehend all this data much faster than myself, and time is going to be of the essence today. Gordon…" The young aquanaut's head shot up as Jeff paused again, briefly second guessing himself, before going with his original plans. "Gordon, I want you to go with Virgil, and pilot Thunderbird Four. This rescue's going to need to be quick, and that means we need the best man for the job."

Shocked, Gordon immediately looked over towards Scott, who gave a slight shake of his head from beside his father. He'd not had a chance yet to raise the issue of Gordon participating in missions since their discussion the night before; this choice was all their father's. Suddenly unable to smother the grin on his face, Gordon smiled broadly, nodding his acknowledgement. However, Jeff wasn't finished and continued on swiftly.

"Virgil, naturally you'll be piloting Thunderbird Two, but I want you to take Scott along with you also." Immediately sensing his eldest's confusion, and imminent query, Jeff pressed on. "There's not going to be anywhere within a near enough range to land One and set up mobile control, today, so I want to use the increased man-power we have available to cover all bases. You'll be going down with Gordon in Four, Scott, to provide any assistance he needs."

The unspoken command to watch out for his recently recovered brother was clear, but even that wasn't going to be enough to discourage an almost jubilant Gordon.

"As said before, boys, I want you ready to launch in ten minutes, or as soon as Brains is finished. Godspeed."

Dismissed, the young men scattered to fully clothe themselves and wash up before embarking on their latest mission.

_The Hess Memorial Hospital, Indianapolis, USA, same kind of time;_

The main building was towering tall, milky ivory in colour and, well, just vast; a mega facility providing service to a significant proportion of the city's community.

It was into the Emergency Department here that Tagen Hopkins had been taken, the racetrack's medical helijet touching down on the first floor roof-landing pad, blowing up fallen leaves and loose grit, in a hail of noisy rotary blades and burning engines. His team-mate and fellow driver, Alan Tracy, along with Matt Harshaw, had arrived at the hospital not too long after, searching for the latest information and news.

There'd been little of that to come, beyond a nurse who'd ushered them into a side, waiting room, telling them that Tag's condition was stable, but still critical, and that a doctor would be with them as soon as possible. They'd found the team physician, who'd travelled aboard the helijet to the hospital already seated in the room, flicking mechanically through one of the scattering of magazines provided.

Now, the three sat in an awkward silence, the ever-present hum of a working hospital there in the background, mingled in with the odour of drunk coffee, and worried second-guessing. Crumpling up his emptied paper cup, Alan dropped it on to the low table in the centre of the room, looking up impatiently at the brightly postered walls (_'How to protect your family against influenza' _and _'STOP Meningitis'_). He was just about to speak, if only to break the enclosing quiet around them, when Matt's comm. rang, its shrill tones piercing the hushed room jaggedly open.

Matt stood, and made to excuse himself from the room, but words somehow failed him, beyond a murmured 'Wyke' before he stepped out of the room to answer the call, leaving Alan to sigh and sag back against his chair, waiting for his race engineer's return and hopefully some news.

The young driver didn't have to wait long for his wish, as a scant five minutes passed before Matt re-entered the waiting area, looking graver than before. Wide eyed, Alan stood, fear flashing across his face.

"Tag?"

Matt shook his head, gesturing for Alan to be seated again, before looking over to the other occupant of the room, who was at least pretending to still be reading a journal article.

"I haven't heard anymore about Tag, Alan. That was Wyke on the phone." Naturally occurring charisma seemed to be failing the engineer right now, as he ran a stiff hand across his eyes. "The ASCC's finished its initial investigation to ensure that we'd not cut corners on the car, and they've found something that's frankly very worrying. Tag's crash, it appears, was caused by a severe deficiency of pressure in the brakes."

Frowning, Alan wasn't following quite where this explanation was headed.

"So, there was a leak? I know it's concerning that happened, that something broke, but that's not anyone's fault." Catching the strange look that crossed his friend's face, Alan added, "Is it?"

Glancing downwards heavily, Matt said,

"It wasn't a mechanical fault, Al. There was no leak. The computer systems that adjust your brakes over the course of the race to allow for wear on the pads and the tyres, changed the pressures, and drained fluid off. The ASCC asked to see all of the data from over the race weekend, to find out how this happened. Turns out there's some programming in our system, that no one seems to know anything about."

Grasping the implying message there, what Alan said next was enough to even bring the team doctor's head up from his carefully choreographed position of disinterest.

"You mean the Committee suspect sabotage?"

_Tracy Island, just after the boys launch towards England;_

With three of his sons enroute to Southampton, with a plan to shore up the leaking chemical vessel, and John thoroughly distracted by incoming transmissions from the organisation's satellite, Jeff Tracy set about fixing up a date he was no longer going to make. Stepping out on to the morning sun-drenched patio, overlooking both pools, and Kyrano's impressive herb garden, he pulled his personal comm. device from his trouser pocket.

Selecting a familiar number, he stood and waited for his call to be accepted. Finally the ringing tone ceased, and on screen a blonde, highly elegant woman appeared. Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward.

Smiling broadly, Jeff greeting the sophisticated agent.

"Lady Penelope, how have you been?"

Gently patting her sleekly, pulled up hair, and smiling back in her own delicate manner, she answered.

"I have been very well, thank you, darling Jeff. And yourself? And the boys?"

Gesturing widely with a broad hand, not that the little screen picked up more than the edge of the movement, Jeff sighed.

"Much as the same as I have been recently, unfortunately, Penny." Here, the most favourite of Jeff's operatives gave a little deliberate smile. Indeed, she knew all about recent happenings. "And as for the boys, a few of them have just set out on a little trip. Which, incidentally was just why I was calling. I think we may need to put your visit to the Island on hold for the moment. After all, there would be little point in you coming to stay with so few of the family about."

Never missing a beat, the blonde aristocrat gave an understanding bob of her delicate features.

"Of course, Jeff. I would so hate to miss the boys. Maybe in the meantime I'll take a little excursion elsewhere. You don't have any recommendations for a lovely spot this time of year, do you?"

Allowing a small, deep chuckle to escape, Jeff smiled approving at the young woman on the other end of the connection.

"I've heard Mediterranean Europe is the place to be at the moment. How about I have Brains look up a couple of spots, and get in touch with you?"

"That would be wonderful, Jeff. Thank you _so_ much. Well, I suppose I'll speak to you soon, to arrange a new date to look in on you and the boys."

Inclining his head a little, Jeff Tracy nodded.

"Of course, Penny. I look forward to it."

And then he cut the connection; another piece of his strike-plan slipping quietly into place.


	27. Mistaken Perils

**So, I managed (between lab sessions, coursework and tests) to actually get some writing done this week. Thus, a new post. Sorry for the lack there of, last week. **

**In other news, I got a piece of coursework back that I submitted a week or two ago. I got an A+. And, I had test results back; in my math I got 83 (which is okay, I guess) and in my construction materials I got 88 (which is nearly 10 percent higher than anyone else on my course). I'm celebrating with candy floss and a trip to the fair tonight.**

**27. Mistaken Perils**

_Indianapolis, American Super-Cars Championship Committee meeting, a little before;_

Within a small, albeit well-lit room, located round the back and out of sight of the racing teams motor homes, seven men and women gathered, somewhat worried. They made up the directors board, a large part of the financial backing for the racing series, and had to make all of the big decisions that went along with the position to boot. Judge, jury and sometimes, executioner.

At the head of the table, Marcus de Riza, an elderly businessman who'd made his fortunes in the nuclear fuel boom, was sat. A heavy, grey thatch of hair, and piercing green eyes defined his face, which was now drawn tight, haggard, stress lines marking out his brow. Personally, he'd ploughed too much of his money into the American Super-Cars Championship to see it undesirably rocked now.

Hung upon the far wall, positioned so all of the room's occupants could view it easily, was a smart-screen loaded with information. Currently, it sat stationary on telemetry data extracted from Pro-Drive Racing's computer bank. It was towards this screen de Riza laboriously gestured now, a sharp flick of his wrist directing everyone's attention that way, and shushing independent conversations that had broken off.

"I think what we are debating over now is a moot point. It's _obvious_ from the information we've collected that Mr. Hopkins' accident today was caused by a catastrophic brakes failure. I believe our time would be much better spent deciding now as to whether or not local law enforcement needs to be brought into this fiasco."

Seated closest to the wall display, down the left-hand side of the room, a woman, Elizabeth Landis, frowned deeply. Mid-thirties in age, _her_ money had come from her deceased father, who left his entire fortune to his only daughter, mainly to spite the wife he no-longer loved. Elizabeth had invested in motor sport as a tribute to her father, and come to love the adrenaline rush almost as much as those who piloted the cars.

"I don't understand, Marcus. This has been a terrible accident, yes, but criminal? Where's the evidence of that? I see none of it here."

From her right, where two others sat, someone pushed more information out into the open.

"The Committee's mechanics have been all over the car as per standard procedures. There's no physical fault in the brake system, meaning the defect must be centred in the electrical management framework for the vehicle. But, I do agree, how does this point towards unlawful doing?"

Elizabeth opened her mouth to further and counterattack the argument, but was silenced by an aloft hand from the top of the table.

Picking a small remote control up from the desk in front of him, de Riza pulled up a new file, and this time it contained not data but a video stream. The location of the camera was indiscernible however, as the image was smudged and blurred beyond recognition.

"Lizzie, this is taken from the camera in Pro-Drive Racing's pit garage. The whole of today's pre-race footage is scrambled, and there's nothing wrong with the camera I assure you." Flicking a button on the compact remote two new views appeared on the display. "The left-hand side of the screen was recorded during the night, and the right side was taken from the race today, showing the camera fully functioning. The moment all of this information came to light I called this meeting, and our analysts and technicians have been, and still are, working on trying to clear up the image. It would appear however that someone doesn't want us to see what went on in that garage today."

Just the same, Elizabeth pulled a face unconvinced. Biting at her lower lip, she questioned and dissected the evidence again.

"So now a camera on the blink proves felony? I still don't see how all of this adds up to someone's wrongdoing. _Surely_, the fact that a camera has malfunctioned on the same day suggests that in actual fact we're looking at a serious failing in P.D.R. computer software."

Marcus smiled grimly at the young investor.

"Unfortunately, there's still one more detail you're unaware of, Lizzie. Following the confirmation that the accident was caused by a computer error, our analysts have taken a look at Pro-Drive's data records for software installation, to see if that's where the root of the problem is. They've found an errant piece of coding, singularly attached to Mr. Hopkins' car, to which the team's personnel claim no knowledge of. What's more however, is that the amendment was made to the program this morning, just after eight o'clock."

Closing off the yet playing video loop, de Riza replaced the remote control onto the desk before him. Straightening the device a little, he drew in a steady breath.

"Together all of this information points towards a less than comforting origin of the accident. Rules, which mind you, we are expected to uphold and enforce, state that if there is any reason at all to doubt or raise suspicion about the ethics or legitimacy of any actions occurring within the jurisdiction of the Committee, we are bound to ask for aid from local authorities. So, as Chair of this committee, I have to ask all of you, having seen the evidence provided, do you believe we should submit an inquiry request to Indianapolis Police Department? I pose that members of this board should raise their hand if they believe this to be the right way forward."

Slowly, all six remaining occupants of the room lifted their hands upwards.

_Thunderbird Two, as before;_

Meeting briefly in their father's office for a last goodbye and good luck, the three mission-bound brothers had separated to go their own ways down to Thunderbird Two's titanic hanger. Virgil had disappeared quickly, slipping up and behind a wall-hung painting, whilst Scott and Gordon had left the room less mysteriously, taking a stairwell access route locked away behind a false fronted door. The young swimmer had bounded down the steps, taking two or three at a time, pausing at the bottom of each flight to wait for his slower moving brother.

Positively bouncing on his toes, more elated and thrilled than he'd been in a long time, Gordon would have made record time to the hanger, if he'd been travelling alone. Instead, the pair reached the hulking craft after a much more average time span.

Virgil'd already strapped in to the pilot's chair, and begun pre-flight checks, leaving Gordon to awkwardly head towards the co-pilot's seat, change his mind, u-turn and set himself down in one of the rear passenger seats. Scott entered the cockpit just as the aquanaut began tightening buckles around his seat restraints.

Pausing beside his copper-haired brother, Scott looked down at him, frowning.

"Aren't you going to sit up front, Gordon?" he said, gesturing towards the vacant position beside Virgil. "You're co-pilot normally."

Gordon nearly replied with '_Well,_ _I thought you'd have kicked me out anyway'_ but changed tack just before opening his mouth. Sensing through his brother's continuous half-glimpses towards the controls, that Scott desperately wanted to be nearer the stick, but wouldn't admit it, Gordon said instead, diplomatically,

"I thought I'd ease myself back into all this slowly. You know, don't want to overload on excitement before we even take-off or anything."

Unconvinced, but wanting to be near the action enough to accept the barely fashioned, woeful excuse, Scott nodded, and headed forward.

Six minutes later, found Thunderbird Two raised up on her tilted launch pad, engines firing, and endless blue skies ahead.

_ASC Committee Room, about an hour (give or take a little) later;_

Once again, gathered in the small meeting room, the seven board members sat, joined by members of the Indianapolis Police Department, including Captain Justin Falke, Detective Kirsten Whitten and a handful of officers. Between all of the personnel, the suite had become cramped, and smelt of torn, frayed stress and strong aftershave.

Rapping sharply upon the wooden table before him, Marcus de Riza called the disorderly room to order, hushing everyone down to a quiet, waiting expectancy. Looking towards the most senior ranking individual in the room, the chairman spoke, his voice deep, commanding and reassuring.

"Captain, to begin, I believe we'd all like to thank the Police Department for reacting so swiftly to our call for assistance. That done, I'd ask that we get straight to business, and ask for a report on your team's findings."

Justin Falke was a middle aged, powerful man. Days of chasing after young miscreants were long behind in his past, his time now spent more often than not seated on the other side of a desk, pencil pushing investigations forwards, or as he was today, on scene, co-ordinating large scale operations. He wore a stubbly moustache, which he smoothed down now with a single, thoughtful finger.

"Mr. de Riza, IPD are happy to offer any assistance they can, and that said, this would be time to introduce you to my colleague, Detective Kirsten Whitten. Detective Whitten's been overseeing the direct contact made with the Pro-Drive Racing team, and beginning to piece together a possible outline of what has happened here today. If it happens that I am called away on other business, she'll be taking control of the on-scene investigation."

Pausing he smiled favourably over at the waiting thirty year old, nodding his appreciation of her handling of the situation.

"Following the ASC Committee's discovery of the possibly hostile coding additions made to the team's software, we've been interviewing as many people as possible who'd have access to the system. It quickly became apparent however, that the team's mechanics and technicians, who'd naturally been the first on our list, were all out of the garage, in a pre-race meeting, at the time of the upload at eight o'clock this morning. Only one member of expected staff was absent from that briefing, and he's been confirmed as having spent all morning in his hotel room, ill with suspected food poisoning."

Elizabeth Landis, who'd become very much involved in the whole incident, taking the alleged suspicions of sabotage very much to heart, frowned, and raised her hand a little, to draw attention.

"So, we're no closer to understanding whether this was accidental or not, then?"

Captain Falke politely shook his head, raising a placid hand.

"No, ma'am. I assure you we are making progress. One of the mechanics questioned, a Paul McKinnon, has said that following the technical meeting, he was one of the first to return to the pit boxes. As he was entering through the rear access point, he has reported that Alan Tracy, who is Tagen Hopkins' team-mate, knocked into him. The driver was apparently leaving the area, alone, and appeared to be very much distracted, and not his usual self."

Immediately, de Riza shook his head adamantly.

"You mean you think Tracy had something to do with this? No… No, I've spoken to that boy on many occasions. Surely not? He's as polite and compassionate as they come in this business."

"Unfortunately, sir, just because a person may appear to be one thing, it doesn't always mean that they're not the exact opposite. Alan Tracy isn't a formal suspect yet in this investigation, but as soon as we are finished here, myself or Detective Whitten will be travelling to the Hess Memorial Hospital to speak with him. You have to understand that from a neutral point of view, he probably has more reasons than most to want to prevent his team-mate from reaching the finish line. IPD has an obligation to follow up on any leads we have."

Suddenly standing to indicate the meeting was over, Marcus de Riza opened an arm towards the doorway.

"Of course, Captain. I presume that you'll keep us in the loop with any new information."

Giving confirmation that he would, Captain Falke ushered his officers out of the small room, leaving the Committee to their bitten-tongue sharp surprise, and the furious confusion that was sure to follow.

_Approaching Southampton, England, aboard Thunderbird Two, a little along;_

There was a distinct sense of déjà vu within the giant, green behemoth, as International Rescue reached the danger zone, soaring round in a great, sweeping arc to survey the scene.

Except this time it was Virgil Tracy at the controls, and Scott who sat in the co-pilot's chair, not John. Plus, there was Gordon too, who'd come forward to discuss plans with Scott as they'd made the journey.

At Virgil's command, his two brothers had headed aft, towards Pod Four, ready for the drop down to the waters below. The aquanaut had just begun scaling the ladder rungs fixed to the side of his boxy, little submarine, to gain access to the topside airlock hatch when the pilot's booming voice had sounded out of the intercom.

"Guys, grab hold of something. Some sonuvabitch's got a lock on us."

Back on the Island, a suggestion that the team shouldn't launch because of a Greek faction's previous threats against them had been dismissed. The likelihood of them being able to organise and attack International Rescue rapidly, had been doubtful, and as Virgil had insisted, they couldn't leave people in danger, because they were scared of a 'what if' and a 'maybe'. Those words were coming back to haunt him now.

There was almost no time to react, as the colossal aircraft dipped suddenly to the right, before pulling upward, trying to put distance between herself and wherever the danger was coming from. Gordon clung tightly to the side of his craft, whilst Scott lunged for a wall-mounted, equipment fitting.

This time though, Thunderbird Two was too close to the source of the threat, and those possessing the weaponry meant harm, not to give a warning shot.

There was a thunderous, rumbling crash, followed by a moment of nothing as a streaking missile found its mark. And then, the giant, virescent leviathan shook and convulsed brutishly, throwing Scott to the floor of Pod Four, and Gordon from the ladder he held on to, before the rear section of Thunderbird Two blossomed into flame, the flickering, red and yellow inferno swallowing the craft like black, liquid death.


	28. The Trick To Survival

**28. The Trick To Survival**

In the time it took to take a squinting, one-eye-closed glimpse of the world, the cockpit of Thunderbird Two changed from a relaxed centre of power and strength, to a blazing hell of crimson, flashing lights, loud, wailing cautions and icy fear.

There was only time enough for a brief '_Guys, grab hold of something_' before Virgil Tracy plunged his ship all-ways, trying to break off the missile lock someone had upon her.

It wasn't enough though, as this time the weapons found their target. A reach-out-and-touch-someone, search and destroy, heat-seeking rocket pinpointing its target. A fierce blaze flowered out along the rear section of the craft, where the projectile hit, fleetingly engulfing her tail and aft-located engines, devouring the green body work in rippling tongues of dancing gold and orange.

The whole ship juddered and shook, the controls trying to tear themselves loose of Virgil's suddenly tightened grip.

Bucking like a skittish mare, Two dipped and yawed across the sky, as her pilot fought red emergency lights, a frantically buzzing radio stream and dread of another attack. That wasn't all though, because there were two brothers away in the pod, who'd yet to try and check in.

First things first, however, meant Virgil's priorities lay with wresting control back before they took an impromptu dip in the sea, and _then_ checking on Scott and Gordon. After everyone had been accounted for, he could establish just what damage had been done to his lady and get the hell out of dodge.

Pressing all the strength he had into pulling Two back out of the sideways fall she'd slipped into, Virgil leant heavily on the controls whilst activating the fire suppressant system in the engine bay, and was finally rewarded with a slow gain of altitude, and a straightening up of direction. Winds were snapping at the injured craft, and her air speed wasn't what Virgil would have wished for, but for the immediate moment they weren't going to descend into the churning waters below.

Outside, the flames caressing the rear of the craft slowly burnt out and died, leaving a stream of heavy, black smoke in their wake, and a scarred, marked frame.

Starting to cast well-trained eyes across the instruments, Virgil reached out for a familiar button, opening a general communication line down to Pod Four. Seeing that their erratic, uncontrolled movement had shifted their location to a safe distance from the chemical tanker, from which the missile had been launched, Virgil called out,

"Scott, Gordon, you alright?"

The reply was a moment in coming, but much to the pilot's relief, Scott's face formed on the smart glass windshield, albeit with a significant bruise already forming down one side of his face.

"Yeah, we're okay, Virge. I went for a trip across the pod, and Gordon took a tumble from the side of Four, but we're both good, and in one piece. We're heading up to the cockpit now. Are you okay?"

"Uh-huh. I'm fine. Two's not looking so great though… Hang on, there's a transmission coming through from base."

Twisting a control dial around, Scott's face was replaced with that of their father's, looking worried and very much… angry?

"Base, to Thunderbird Two. Virgil, is everyone alright?"

Virgil nodded, reaching over to turn off another emergency warning bell that had just sprung to life. It seemed the destruction wasn't quite yet over.

"We're fine, Father. Everyone's safe, if not a little bruised. Scott and Gordon are on their way back up now."

The worry lines immediately began to ease from Jeff's face, but the strange, burning look remained in his dark eyes. Pushing the camera around a little bit, to include John in the frame (who'd been sat running the intelligence side of the operation from their father's desk), Jeff continued,

"Good. What's your status, Virgil? Is Two still at operational capabilities?"

As the pilot grimaced a little, Scott and Gordon entered the cockpit, the latter moving with a awkward stiffness, which a year ago had been unknown to him. Scott acknowledged Jeff with a brief head nod, before both brothers came to stand behind Virgil. Looking back over the board of instruments that all taunted him with little red and amber winking lights, the pilot shook his head.

"No. I've lost jets two to four and six…," Then as another line of bulbs turned red, "… make that nine as well. The rear-left VTOL's gone and the left engine is damaged as well. We're capable of flight for now, and have manoeuvrability but we need to put down soon. What about the tanker?"

Jeff shook his head.

"The _Petra Rose_ is not ours to deal with anymore, Virgil. The coast guard is currently being alerted to our situation, and asked to proceed with caution when they can spare a boat to attend. We're officially standing down from this one."

"But- "

Finally John spoke up, cutting off his brother. He was calm (as always), completely unfazed by the situation, as though Two was struck by weaponry every day and it was an expected hazard of the job; like the total at the bottom of a spreadsheet column, or the predictable outcome of a well-weathered formula.

"It doesn't matter whether we want to help or not, here. Two's not in any situation to give aid. You drop that Pod, and with the limited power you've got, the wind'll tear you from the skies without the extra weight."

Knowing his brother was right, didn't mean the decision to leave people who called for their service sat any easier. John continued, as though he didn't noticed his three absent brother's discomfort with the situation.

"Foxleyheath should be within easy distance to reach. Set Two down there, and then you can set about finding the total extent of the damage, before you try and get back to Base."

Noticing how both Virgil and Scott glanced towards him in the view screen, Jeff added, by way of agreement,

"Call in as soon as you've landed."

Nodding, Virgil began to already pull his craft round in a huge, banking turn, as Scott reached out to cut the comm. connection.

"F.A.B., Father."

The screen flicked black, as the giant behemoth gracefully turned in the air, re-pointing herself into the now setting sun and towards southern England, a smoky, grey tail streaming out behind her wounded flanks.

_Tracy Island, just after;_

Jeff Tracy mused quietly to himself, as his second son poured over data silently at the other end of his desk, that indeed, it never rained but it poured. _And,_ that trouble was a little like London buses. You could wait forever for one, and then, scores would appear at once. Not that you'd ever sit about, hoping to be found by trouble, that is.

Literally seconds after communications were cut to Thunderbird Two, a distressed, frantic Alan had appeared on the public line. His blond hair was mercilessly tousled, and his eyes tinged grey with exhaustion and panic.

It'd taken three attempts to get a jumbled, unsequenced recount of what had happened. It appeared that Tagen Hopkins' accident (forgotten as it had been in the drama of events happening within the International Rescue part of their lives) hadn't been _an accident_, and furthermore, Alan was suspected of having played a part in the inception of the tragedy.

Almost tearful, because Alan had never been very good at reigning in his emotions, but not quite, the young driver had tried to explain.

"They've not done anything official yet, but if the CCTV doesn't clear up soon, then they will, because I'll have no proof I didn't do anything. Someone tampered with Tag's computer system, and because I was in the garages this morning, waiting for _Tag_, no less, they think it was me, Dad."

At the mention of computers, John, Jeff had noted, had looked up. Quietly he'd said,

"Alan. Alan, listen to me. We'll fix it, alright?"

The towheaded teenager had seemingly calmed instantly, nodding slowly. No promises had been made, and there were no guarantees that anything could be proved in Alan's defence, but the hope of someone placing a band aid over the situation and solving it all, was enough.

Who the 'we' was, was all but obvious to Jeff. In their mother's absence, and during his own long-spanning business trips, his sons (including quiet, unfathomable John) had somehow pulled together. They'd found strength within one another to make it through tragedy, and that faith, it seemed, had never been lost. A single word of aid from a brother was enough to calm even the worst storms, and judging by the quietly raging fire behind John's piercing eyes, they followed through with that help, no matter what.

Suddenly a little overwhelmed by the understanding of the silent care that passed between his sons, Jeff had apologised for not being able to fly out instantly to be with his youngest son, but had promised to send _someone_ so that Alan wasn't alone.

In the end, the only person not swathed knee-deep with International Rescue, was TinTin, who'd been immediately sent out to comfort, and offer reassurance.

Somewhere between order and randomness, between safety and risk, sat Jeff Tracy. And as far as he was aware, the trick to making it through was just to keep breathing.

_Creighton-Ward Manor House, Foxleyheath, England;_

Virgil Tracy had managed to put his wounded lady down safely. The landing had been bumpier than normal, and not particularly level but they'd made it. All in one piece.

At last, shielded and protected from danger, minor injuries and damage could be properly surveyed.

Scott, upon impact, had lost his grip of the equipment peg in the pod, and tumbled down the pitched floor into the far wall. He had a spectacularly coloured bruise forming distorted patterns across his right cheek and a pounding headache, but nothing a few aspirin wouldn't solve until they got back to the Island. 

Virgil, similarly, had escaped with nothing more serious than an imprint of the pilot's chair harness, from where he'd been flung in to it, as the energy waves had rippled down the craft from the explosion.

The final member aboard Thunderbird Two was currently trying to declare himself fit, also. Gordon, having been nearly to the summit of the ladder running up to the topmost hatch on Four, had been unceremoniously thrown from his craft down on to the rubber-coated, metal flooring on the pod. He'd landed mostly on his side, thankfully, jarring his back minimally as he'd crashed into the deck.

Now Scott stood, drawing himself up to his full height (which unfortunately for the aquanaut was a few significant inches more than he had), trying to stare down his brother. In the past intimidation had worked well against younger siblings, and although Scott knew he stood on shakier ground now as his brothers had grown into young adults, he hoped to appeal to Gordon's sense of rank, seeing as the boy had only recently left the WASP.

"Gordon, I'm not arguing about this. I've seen how carefully you've been moving since we were hit, and you're going to get yourself down to the medical bay, and take a seat till we're done."

Sometimes though, the childish, petulant side of Gordon broke free.

"No way, Scott. I'm fine. I'd say if I wasn't. My back _was _sore, but yours would have been too, if you'd taken the fall I did. So back off. I can help."

Sensing a full-scale fight about to break out, Virgil stepped between his brothers, hands outstretched.

"Alright, guys. Let's just step back a minute, huh?" Looking to Gordon, and gauging his mood a little, the pilot continued, "There's no sense in all us getting dirty in the engines anyways, so how about I get you something to take the edge off, Gordo, and you stay up here to watch the shop. _Then,_ if the damage is too much for us to make it home, we'll call you up to help with repairs. The more hands we have after all, the quicker we'll be finished."

At this end, Virgil looked over to Scott, daring him to say differently. No argument came though, as the ex-fighter pilot shrugged his shoulders. He guessed, at some point, no matter how much you love them, you have to let them go.

Gordon conceded too, because after all, he knew he had to face the fact that a few months ago, suddenly, everything had changed.

"Alright. I could do with calling Al anyway. But the moment you need help- "

"We'll call." Virgil finished.

That settled, Scott and Virgil headed aft, to collect equipment and head towards the engines. Scott just hoped that watching his brothers choose their own paths without always needing his reassurance would eventually get easier.

Because they say the first cut is the deepest, but it hadn't started to hurt any less yet.


	29. Detained Headway

**So I'm rubbish at updating frequently. I'll try and post more than once a week though, to keep to the New Year deadline I set myself.**

**29. Detained Headway**

_Elsewhere, same kind of time;_

Very much everything was coming together. Like pieces of an eons old puzzle, clicking into place with the precision and ease that only time could allow, his plans fell neatly into order around him. _And_, what was more; no one seemed any the wiser.

He'd been hustled, none to politely and somewhat forcefully, into giving up his old, original plot by Tracy's unknown guardian angel, but not this time around. He'd shrewdly wormed his way inside the heart of the over inflated braggart's racing team, and left behind a bomb that'd erupted, dragging wrongly accused consequences with it.

Right now, the wretched bastard was paying the price of his own good fortune, and of another's actions, whilst Lanning was sat back, revelling in it all.

What the deceitful, sham-businessman didn't realise was that he had just poured gas on John Tracy's already seriously blazing fire. Which, unfortunately for Lanning, was akin to poking the astronaut with a knife-sharpened stick; guaranteed to get a reaction, and it wasn't likely to be a friendly offer of a meal out with two tickets to the movies.

_Tracy Island, continuing on;_

Virgil had been right when he thought he'd seen anger burning viciously just beneath the surface of Jeff Tracy's eyes. Behind shaded brown orbs, rage and fury broiled, churning up rational thought and curbed passion into dangerous spikes of action and defiance.

The group that had threatened his sons, as they'd set out to answer a call for aid from Tirana, Albania, seemed to have acted again. Before, the faction had warned of a violent retaliation if International Rescue launched to provide help and relief to the world. And now, they appeared to have fulfilled that ultimatum.

Suspicions that the tanker's plea for help had been nothing but a smoky façade had already surfaced within Jeff's mind, playing with his thoughts and emotions like a red-hot dagger, slashing them open and piercing them in two jagged pieces.

It was too coincidental to believe that the same people as before hadn't planned this attack, but there wasn't enough evidence to _prove_ this was the case.

And then, on top of that, his youngest, Alan, was in danger of being charged with… what? Criminal damage? Attempted murder?

Shaking his greying head a little, Jeff drained the last of his coffee mug. John was back on the comm. conversing simultaneously between Scott, Virgil and his computer in a far away orbit. Data (symbols, letters, numbers and punctuation) filled the screen, changing with each keystroke the astronaut applied. For now he was content to leave his sons to diagnose any problems with Thunderbird Two, as there were other just as pressing matters to be dealing with.

For the second time that evening, the Tracy patriarch found himself easing open the large, glassed doors out on to the balcony, comm. device in hand. Afternoon was pulling itself along grandly, the sun still beating its heavy self down on the world, crushing shadows and loneliness as it went.

Calling up the same number he dialled not long before, Jeff waited patiently as the line connected.

Lady Penelope was still exuding all the grandeur and splendour that she had earlier that day, resplendent in a powder blue ensemble, hair tucked neatly into a side sweep. Smiling generously upon Jeff, moving backgrounds could just about be made out behind the noblewoman.

"Jeff, dearest. I wasn't expecting another call so soon. Not that I'd ever be saddened by unexpected correspondence from you."

Parker, acting upon co-ordinates received not long ago from Brains, had ushered Lady Penelope into FAB-1, and set off, headed towards Greece. The plan was to drive south to the coast of England, before boarding a high-speed ferry destined for northern France. From there, they would load the car onto the new continental passenger train line that would speed them down through France, and into Italy. Greece, their final destination, was just another short boat trip away.

"Glad to hear that, Penny. I was calling to let you know that on their travels, the boys have found themselves at your home. I was hoping you wouldn't mind their intrusion, despite your being away."

The blonde aristocrat shook her head slightly, covering the brief confusion and slight worry that had graced her delicate, porcelain features.

"Of course, it's not a trouble, Jeff. Are they all well, though, the boys? I was hoping they might drop by, but never imagined they would reach the Manor so quickly."

"They're all fine, although I'm sure they appreciate your concern. They had a slight change of plan, that's all. How is your trip going?" Then, "Hang on a moment, Penny."

Behind Jeff, the balcony doors slid quietly open, catching a little on their runners. Turning, he found John framed in the entrance, the tall astronaut all but reaching the top of the doorway. Clearly, he wanted to speak about something, but Jeff held up a single finger.

"I'll be with you in a moment, John. I just need to finish up here."

His son nearly shrugged his indifference, but caught himself just before doing so, nodding instead. Watching until the doors were re-closed, Jeff looked back to his comm. to find Penelope still waiting, taking the moment to touch up imaginary smudges on her face. Before Jeff could apologise, she said,

"Don't fret, one can never expect to be fully without intrusions when they're busy. Now, where were we…? Oh, my trip! Of course. It's going excellently, thank you. We boarded the trans-continental train some fifteen minutes ago, and are currently whipping past delightful countryside outside of Paris. We should reach Catanzaro, in Italy within a few hours. These new hyper-speed transports remove so much of the tiresome travelling time. I don't know what I'd do without them."

"Well, that's wonderful news. I don't suppose I could impose upon you, could I, Penny, and ask you to run a quick errand for me whilst in the Mediterranean?"

Dimpling a little, Penelope reached up to reposition a stray lock of hair that had fallen from its place.

"It'd be a pleasure, Jeff. Shall I expect Brains to post over any details?"

"I'll have him do it straight away. Thank you so much, Penny. You really are wonderful."

Summoning a becoming blush from somewhere, the blonde grandee brushed aside the compliments before cutting the connection from her end.

Originally, when he'd sent Penny out to Greece, Jeff had expected she'd be needed for surveillance, and maybe a little digging, but nothing more. Now though the ball game had changed, and so were his plans having to. It mattered not however. Lady Penelope would go to the ends of the Earth for him, and his boys; and whatever needed to be done, would be.

For now, there was another incoming call waiting (an unknown number) and further contacts to be reached.

_Creighton-Ward Manor House, Foxleyheath, out back in Thunderbird Two, same time;_

There was something about an engine that was big enough to stand up and stretch in that had always fascinated Virgil. No matter how many times he did maintenance checks and upgrades on his 'bird, he never grew tired of fiddling about with the complex, intricate workings of Thunderbird Two.

Scott however, was a completely different story, and one he _was _beginning to wear of. For what must have been the third or fourth time, the ex-fighter pilot paused, causing Virgil to halt in their passage towards the rear of the craft, and where the damage was.

"So, you really think Gordon's alright, then?"

Virgil scrutinised Scott carefully for a moment, before sighing. Shaking his head, and re-adjusting the diagnostic equipment pack on his shoulder, he said,

"I think the kid knows better than to screw with his health… and us, Scott." Gesturing for the pair to keep moving, the brown-eyed pilot continued, "He might be frustrated with being left out, but Gordon's not stupid."

Traversing the length of Thunderbird Two took some time, with multiple corridors, keypad locks and recognition scanners to navigate. The inside of the giant craft rang with creaks and groans, the aftermath of the missile destruction, and not so even landing. Warm, amber lighting glowed down the passageways, inviting and foreboding at the same time. The normal, bright white, overhead lights had cut off when Virgil had completely powered down the main generators, leaving the ship running on back up, emergency power sources. After all, it was better to be safe than sorry, and another fire was exactly what they didn't need in the engines.

There were three separate sites/pieces of equipment that needed most urgent investigation, before the rest of the craft was to be checked over for damage. The left engine and VTOL jet could be accessed from within the hulking structure, and should it prove that only simple repairs were required they could be performed there and then. On the other hand, the broken turbo ramjets in the tail fuselage were only approachable from the outside, meaning a difficult climb lay ahead too, without the use of the usual overhead gantries in Two's hanger.

Scott and Virgil halted again, as they reached the entry door to the main engine bay, in the aft section of the aircraft. A final keyed in code and finger print scanner lay before them and as Scott held his digit up against the cool gel of the infrared strip, he said quietly,

"I just… worry about him, that's all, Virge."

The scanner beeped its acceptance of the ID offered, and the gel pad shifted its design to that of illuminated numbers.

Leaning up against the smooth metal wall, watching as Scott pressed down a sequence of buttons (345255; every other digit in pi, you could tell Brains had devised the codes) Virgil shrugged a little.

"We all worry, Scott, but you heard him the other night. He knows things will never be quite the same as they were before his accident. Gordon's more aware than the rest of us put together of the new limitations he has. Trust me."

Before them, the thick metal door slid open, allowing a last film of grey smoke to escape out into the corridor, floating along just below the ceiling level, dancing in pale wisps and breaking apart as it went. Not sparing the gases a second glace, Scott and Virgil ventured in to the engine compartment to inspect the damage.

_Hess Memorial Hospital, Indianapolis, around about the same time;_

There'd been no further news yet on Tag's condition, and, beyond a sneaked glance through the Emergency Department's glass panelled swing doors whilst on a bathroom trip, Alan still sat none the wiser.

He'd seen only many medical personnel gathered around his team-mate and friend's bedside, and a whole array of machinery when he'd passed, nothing to give any clues or indication as to Tagen's injuries or condition. How anyone could think that he'd wanted this…

Yet, looking up towards the sound of someone entering the room, Alan saw two police officers in the doorway (one in uniform, the other plain clothed but with a precinct logo visible on the papers they were carrying and a grim-set smug look).

"Mr. Tracy, I presume?"

Not dressed in uniform, the woman addressing him was around thirty years old, with thick, brown hair, pulled tightly back at the nape of her neck. She waited only for Alan to nod before continuing briskly onwards.

"You spoke to my colleague, Captain Falke, earlier. He expressed upon you the implications our investigation had with regards to yourself, I'm told?"

Standing to face this new woman, Alan glanced over to his race engineer, Matt Harshaw, who'd been dozing quietly in the corner of the room. He too, had stood, frowning towards the newcomers.

"Uh, yeah. I spoke to someone. I was told that because I'd been seen in the garages I'd have to be questioned at some point, but that technicians were working on cleaning up some CCTV footage that would show what actually happened to Tag's car."

The woman nodded curtly, gesturing quietly to the police officer stood just behind her right shoulder.

"My name is Detective Whitten, Mr. Tracy. I'm afraid there's been no development on the recordings, and therefore, you are being detained on suspicion of causing property damage with a wilful disregard for life."


	30. The Last Smile I'll Fake

**I return back home, 120-miles south today, so, uh, it could be little while before my computer is back up and running properly to post the last couple of chapters. **

**30. The Last Smile I'll Fake**

There was an old Chinese proverb, Jeff thought, which says 'it is easier to govern a kingdom, that it is to rule a family'. He'd always, in the past, applied the same principles to both (his kingdom being Tracy Aerospace Corporation); keep a firm order over happenings, prevent accidents/errors before they have a chance to occur and encourage creativity and self-thinking.

Perhaps though, not all of the same rules could be applied to both.

His mother had always said children were best left to make mistakes on their own, because that way they'd learn their lesson, and not push the boundaries in the same style again. Possibly… _probably_, she was right. After all she'd not only raised himself, her own son, but half-brought up her grandchildren, what with Jeff's frequent business absences.

International Rescue, however, fell somewhere partly between the two. Technically, it was an organisation run with mannerisms much similar and akin to TrAC, but on the other hand, Jeff had significant personal investment in it all. Not money, or reputation, but his _sons_. It didn't get much more valuable than that.

Which was why, he couldn't… wouldn't allow another accident. Because, next time they mightn't be so damn lucky.

And then, there was Alan. Now he most definitely fell into the family category, but his troubles weren't of the usual sort. He wasn't in-fighting with his siblings, nor getting into mishaps at school, or having 'girl troubles'. No. He was facing possible charges of causing criminal damage, with a by-product of a serious, maybe still to become fatal, accident.

Immediately, having heard news of his son's detention (the unknown call he'd received earlier had been from his son's race engineer, who'd thought Jeff should know of the latest developments), he had called up, and sent over, his long-time friend, and lawyer, Pharell Deinewald.

John had said he'd put everything to rights for Alan, but with the astronaut's own record of lawfulness very much shaded in patches, Jeff doubted he'd be able to do much. It wasn't like they could play their past trick, and erase all signs that Alan had ever been at the racetrack. They'd done that before, when Scott had been implicated in a felony whilst performing an underhand task very much important to the existence of International Rescue.

Sighing, Jeff pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes against the constant stream of jumbled thoughts running through it. He was only catching at some of them, those that stood out with bright, sharp clarity, but it was enough for him to see that all was nowhere near well.

Thoughts of Scott, led him full circle, back to current problems. John had appeared on the balcony briefly, wanting to speak about something, hadn't he? Maybe there was news of the damage to Thunderbird Two, or maybe (much less comfortingly) _something else _had decided on today to go wrong. Slipping his comm. device back into a trouser pocket, Jeff returned back to his study indoors.

The room was cool, artificially circulated air keeping the area refreshed, and pleasant, and the afternoon sun yet lit the space up well. The light coloured décor mixed with the rich furnishings, to give an elegant, superior look and quality. In the background computer systems hummed at low frequencies, pitched well enough to be unobtrusive, but still noticeably there. John was once again back on the radio, although this time it sounded as though he was perhaps speaking to TinTin.

The girl had been utterly distraught over the day's happenings, first feeling anguish on behalf of his youngest son, Alan, then fearful (along with everyone else) for his other boys. She'd pulled herself together magnificently however, stepping up to fly out to provide support (and more than likely a little comfort) to Alan.

Anyhow, John seemed calm and to be acting with an easy, secure control; softening Jeff's fears of further disaster. Then again, the world could have been torn to fiery, blistering shreds, imploding in upon itself with blinding quickness, and John probably would have leant back, shrugged, and asked what was next on the list for the day.

Noticing his father stood, watching him, John then murmured to TinTin,

"Listen, I need to go. Father's back, and I've a few more problems still to iron out. I'll get back to you as soon as I can. It's near the top of the 'to-do' list, alright?"

The girl's response was muffled and quiet, very much unheard by Jeff. What she'd been asking for was, pretty much, anyone's guess, and definitely not (yet) one of Jeff's problems. Whatever it was John wanted to talk about though, was.

The pale-haired astronaut pushed away from the desk a little bit, looking up at his father through serious, blue eyes; so much like his mother's, and so different all at once.

"Sorry. For out on the balcony, that is. I didn't realise you were taking a call."

Jeff held up a broad hand, shaking his head gently some.

"Not your fault, John. I should have told you where I was going. You had something to speak with me about?"

Idly selecting a heaped ball of re-usable, adhesive tack up off the desk, John began pulling the stretchy, blue matter into long strings, placing each one carefully parallel to its neighbour on the table. He'd never been all that good at face-to-face communications, the focused intensity of another person on himself, made him feel awkward, maybe even trapped. Instead, the astronaut found something else to focus on, giving his mind an 'escape' from the conversation.

"Yes, sir. Scott and Virgil have gone to look at the damage to Thunderbird Two; they'll be calling in anytime with news. And I've spoken to Brains. He's suggested loading any spare parts they'll need into One's cargo bay, and then for me to fly her out to Foxleyheath, and help with repairs. It'll be the quickest way of getting the others back here."

…_To safety._ The last went unsaid.

Jeff nodded, not that John saw, his head down and concentrating on the strips of material that were now being re-arranged into carefully sculpted 3-D equations.

"Alright. And what about Gordon?"

Pulling over a pot of coloured drawing pins, John began 'pegging' together sections of his model, oblivious to his father's uncomprehending stares.

"Scott said he'd stayed up in the cockpit, to try and contact Alan. Apparently Gordon thought he might need a friendly face to talk to." John paused here, before continuing on, "Not that's he's likely to get through now."

Which he wasn't. Hopefully, Pharell Deinewald would be reaching Indianapolis soon, and TinTin not long after, to begin to fix and put to rights everything. Until then…

"What was TinTin calling about, son?"

"Just needed s…" John stopped abruptly mid-sentence, staring squarely at his little tack and pinned framework, before removing a single brace he'd constructed and watching the whole thing collapse in on itself. Looking up for the first time in the conversation, John finished, "…some reassurance." Then, hurriedly, "Sir, everything's under control here for the moment, so if it's alright, I could do with a walk to sort my head before flying out."

Keeping his lips tightly compressed about his second son's odd behaviour (not that it was really anything new, just strange) Jeff nodded his head, rubbing a large hand wearily across his eyes. Refocusing, he said,

"Of course. I'll take the call from Thunderbird Two when it gets here, and give you a buzz when we're closer to a launch time." Then, because it felt like the right thing to do, "Thank you for managing things from this end, whilst I've been otherwise occupied."

A hand was extended towards the astronaut, who tentatively took it, a handshake passing between father and son.

"Not a problem, sir."

And then John was gone, swiftly vanishing to fix back together more broken pieces with spit, glue and muttered prayers.

_Thunderbird Two, same period (night time in England);_

The cockpit was lit up with amber reserve lighting, and the odd blinking dial, drawing in the closing darkness from outside like a thick, woollen blanket. Gordon sat, very straight and as unmoving as possible, in the vast pilot's chair, a paper cup of water and an aspirin packet balanced on the arm.

Virgil had fetched them from the cabin's aft-located first aid cabinet and the small, crew kitchenette, before he and Scott had set off to investigate the damage done to the powerful, big ship.

Alone, and with the dull pain in his back beginning to gradually, bit by bit ease, the aquanaut had set the comm. system to dial up his only younger brother's phone. He'd got a pre-recorded message, though. The standard '_Hey, it's Alan. I'm totally busy now, so leave a message, and I might call you back.'_.

The airhead had probably forgotten to charge the power pack or something, leaving his comm. to die and switch off, and Gordon didn't have another number to try. Well, he figured glumly, Alan always had _his_ number if he needed to talk.

With Thunderbird Two running on the emergency generators (Virgil had been worried about the wrecked engines starting a secondary fire, with the initial explosion's heat spots still a cause for concern) the swimmer knew better than to start running unnecessary systems, which included bringing up the Internet news pages. Besides, the media normally had little of real substance or fact to report on anything remotely of importance.

Very much bored, and wanting to help, Gordon began to slowly rise to his feet, planning to head back towards the turbo-jet housings, and his brothers.

_John's rooms, Tracy Island, following on from before;_

Slim, pale and extremely gifted, John Tracy hadn't excused himself from his father's presence to actually gather his thoughts and order them, but more to hustle them into action.

Back in the office, the stringy model he'd begun to craft had started out as just a distraction, with no real end to the means. The astronaut's perspective had been changed though, through one swift side-glance, whereupon the sinewy, pinned blue frame had become something more. An answer.

Alan was, after all, being detained on nothing more than a lack of evidence to prove his innocence, rather than a multitude of proofs showing his guilt. Thus, if John could somehow obtain the original, undamaged security footage…

His 'eureka' moment of understanding in his father's office, when he'd finally seen the _big_ picture, rather than the cut-out image they'd all been focusing on, gave John a clarity others were lacking.

Somewhere, beneath the fuzzy, smudged remains of a video recording lay Alan's freedom, and it was hidden only beneath a velvety blanket of coded destruction. Easy enough to remove if you knew where to look, and puzzling beyond belief if you didn't. The ASCC technicians and police scientists fell into the latter category.

John, however, was acting on a stomach-upsetting notion; that a past enemy had come back for more, or maybe just for revenge.

Turning to his own computer, forging an uplink to Five's systems, for quicker processing power, the one-time hacker found a route into the ASCC hard-drives, copying the recording files and opening them on his own desktop. Running them through diagnostic software, telltale hints of a past adversary sprung up.

Lanning.

Already well-versed in the crook's personalised script, John began to make headway through the viral programming, clearing up in a way the official law enforcement had no idea how.

An hour later found comprehensible CCTV sat on the astronaut's computer; an undeniable verification of Lanning's wrongdoings, and Alan's honest story.

Distracting him for a moment, John's wristwatch vibrated twice, sending a tingling sensation up his right forearm. It seemed Father and maybe Brains were ready for him. Nearly show time.

First though, the newly rejuvenated pit-garage recordings had to be planted back in the American Super Cars Committee technicians' computers. Selecting an access port at random, John transferred _his_ files over, figuratively pulling a few sheets of paper over them, so as to not make it look too easy/suspicious.

Tomorrow morning, someone would arrive at their desk station, load up the day's work, and find after a few keystrokes the solution to their (and Alan's) problem.

Hedging that he had a few more moments before his Father would, frustrated and annoyed, 'buzz' him again, John also sought a pathway into Indianapolis Police Department's storage banks. There he planted a file on Richard Lanning, uploading all of the stolen, incriminating files he'd accumulated before. They'd throw the book and a set of heavy chains at Lanning this time, for sure.

Quietly content with himself, John closed down his computer, and left his rooms. A quick jaunt to England, repairs and reunions awaited.


	31. For the Sake of Being With You

**Sorry for this being shorter than all the last. Time is very much catching up with me. Apologies again.**

**31. For The Sake Of Being With You**

_Elsewhere;_

Affection was a strange thing. For years, TinTin had been annoyed with Alan's immature ways, his macho, son of a billionaire act. She'd put it down to the boy being the youngest of five, and very much attention seeking.

Come vacation time, he'd parade around the island, with his crazy, gelled-to-death, sun-bleached blond hair, baggy cargo pants and loud shirts; all of it just screaming for someone just to toss him off a lonely cliff. Not that anyone had actually managed to, although Gordon had tried on enough occasions. She hated to think what Alan must have been like at school, and imagined his brash, too-cool attitude had landed him in trouble and detention more often than not.

Yet, somewhere along, amidst all his claims of women swooning at his feet, the ferocious verbal storms when Alan had thrown her into the swimming pool unannounced for the fourth time that day, and the general childish dislike she'd harboured for him, something had changed.

Alan was still dashingly good-looking, with more hair products than the rest of the household summed together, and just as boastfully self-assertive as he'd always been, but… Still, even now, a long time on, she couldn't quite place what the difference had been, nor just when it had occurred.

All the same, the reshape happened, and TinTin found herself actually _liking_ the boy, whilst Alan slowly discovered that although the women/girls who literally threw themselves at him, were certainly beautiful, they didn't altogether mean as much to him as TinTin did.

Racing towards Indiana in her converted 'Ladybird' TinTin had little to do, beyond remember times past, countlessly recheck her expected time of arrival and whisper, hushed prayers of hope for Alan's safe liberation from false accusations.

Fingering a pretty, silver bracelet the race driver had given her last summer, after she'd exclaimed delight over the little trinket at a market stall in Fiji, TinTin murmured softly,

"Just hold on, Alan. Help is on its way. I promise."

_Tracy Island, the office, onwards;_

Finally, the boys had called through from Thunderbird Two, with news and a complete damage report. The latter had been sent straight down to Brains in one of the labs, where'd he begun to assemble a rudimentary tool and part kit, until precise requests for equipment had come through.

The three, Scott, Virgil and Gordon, had looked okay on screen, a little rumpled around the edges, and Scott didn't seem to quite want much to do with Gordon, but they were whole and standing and alive (which after all, was what mattered most).

Jeff had listened to their report, and glanced over the file Virgil had put together and e-mailed, with barely concealed relief. Whilst extra parts were certainly going to have to be flown over to England, and Thunderbird Two wasn't currently air-worthy, she'd not take much to fix up and be on her way.

The conversation had finished with an order for the boys to get some rest, for the hour was very much late in that part of the world, and confirmation that John'd be joining them as soon as possible. Then, the ex-astronaut had called up his second son.

John had finally appeared ten minutes after Jeff's original hail, just as another frustrated signal was about to be sent out for the boy. He'd shrugged into the room, muttering some apology about being down on the beach, and having to walk back.

Waving excuses away, impatient to get started, Jeff indicated for his son to sit down, and just about managed to ignore the fact that he chose not to. As always straight to the point, Jeff began,

"Scott's called in with a more detailed damage report for Thunderbird Two, and Brains is already loading replacement parts into One's hold. He'll be finished in ten to fifteen minutes, and I'd like for you to set out as soon as possible, John."

The blond astronaut nodded his head, but said nothing. Biting back a frustrated sigh, Jeff stared long and hard at his son, not understanding the boy… man… stood before him for a moment.

"Are you alright, John? If you're not up to this, I can send Brains. If there's something troubling you- "

Suddenly John looked directly at his father, and said, adamantly,

"No, sir. I'm fine. Nothing's troubling me. I'll go and pack then."

Very much confused (although never showing it, because incomprehension was just another weakness), Jeff nodded slightly.

"Alright. Report back in ten minutes ready to lift off."

_Briefly, arriving in United States of America, Indiana;_

She'd touched down safely on a minor runway at Indianapolis International Airport, set off to one side for use of private jets belonging to the rich, famous and busy. Following instructions from IND Control Tower, TinTin had taxied her little plane into a 'personal client's' hanger, setting it between other aircrafts owned by faceless millionaires, before hurriedly sprinting through log books, and handing the craft over to the mechanics stationed there.

Bidding the men to check and re-fuel the 'Ladybird', charging anything to a Tracy Aerospace account (Mr. Tracy had insisted upon this, despite her protests), TinTin left the airport, hastening towards a organisation in uproar, and a friend in need.

_Somewhere in Greece, Europe, at some point along, and amidst the rest;_

To look at her, all upper-class glamour, dinner parties and good manners, you'd not have thought she'd take orders from anyone, except maybe an old, trusted handmaiden.

But, then again, Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward was anything _but_ what you expected. She looked as soft as marshmallowed clouds, and as gentle as red-ribboned carpet and warm leather, but inside she was fire and ice and rage. Especially now.

Corbin Dimitri Ricketts hadn't really stood a chance, once everything was weighed up and balanced.

Parker had played his role to perfection. Silent and deadly, he'd dropped every one of the guards positioned around the small building Ricketts had taken to hiding in, without alerting any others to his doings, or drawing more, maybe dangerous, attention. Thus, he left the path open for another to finish the whole, untidy business.

He'd lead Lady Penelope to the very door behind which the monster responsible for most of the Tracy family's heartache lie, and passed her a cold handgun, all business.

"H'if you please, m'lady, I'll be waiting just the other side of this 'ere door."

Poised, Lady Penelope accepted the offered firearm, adjusting her grip around the piece gently.

It was to be expected that Ricketts would, himself, be armed, and Parker would be waiting just in the doorway, should things begin to veer slightly wayward. This final part of the act though, was hers to do, for she alone had been tasked with the job of protecting International Rescue's secrets, and brave men, this time.

"Thank you, Parker."

What happened next was over in mere moments, and for Parker, who knew the fate that lay ahead for the young would-be world conqueror, it was like watching a train wreck about to happen. The beautiful aristocrat had stepped through the doorway as he'd pushed it open, and noiselessly positioned herself in the centre of the room, directly behind the young man who was staring at a projected news feed, gun resting easily in her delicate hands.

She'd been about to make a remark, or noise, to gain the man's attention, because after all it was impolite and unsporting to shoot someone who had their back turned, when, sensing movement behind him, Dimitri had whirled around, ready to berate whichever hired fool had thought it wise to enter unannounced.

There was time to register the slight, almost satisfied smile that ghosted across his killer's face, before a gunshot cracked about the room, echoing through, and in, plastered walls and thin, glass windowpanes.

_Tracy Island, as before;_

Exactly on cue, ten minutes after his abrupt exit from his father's study, John Tracy was back, a grey-beige rucksack thrown indifferently over one shoulder (within, it held a single change of clothes, because he wasn't planning on letting the repairs take very long, and his much tampered with laptop).

There was a brief handshake, and sort of shoulder clasp (from father to son) and then Jeff said,

"Go and bring your brothers home, John. Godspeed."

The sometimes astronaut tried to think of something to say in return, but all that came up was '_bye' _and he didn't think it sounded quite right. Instead he nodded his head, and disappeared from the room by way of the painting-disguised access door, normally used by his eldest brother.

A short while later found Jeff Tracy stood out on the balcony, shielding his eyes against the gushing, vivid reds and golds of the setting sun, watching Thunderbird One streaking upwards, before it turned horizontal and vanished into the horizon, leaving pluming white wakes behind it.


	32. I'll Let You Live

**And so, to the end. Thanks to everyone who's been following this through, especially Ms Hobgoblin. It's been fun. **

**32. I'll Let You Live**

_Later;_

So it had turned out, a great deal can happen in just 48 hours. In fact, a hell of a great deal, actually.

There'd been first accidents, then rescues and missile strikes. Not exactly an average day by anyone's standards, but John was beginning to wonder if, for him and his family, it wasn't far from it.

Walking along the beach waterline, back on Tracy Island, he ignored the warm water as it lapped over his shoes and was drawn up by the bottom of his trouser leg. It was a small discomfort in return for some quiet, thinking time.

It seemed the truth lately had taken on the appearance of light from an ancient kaleidoscope; tinted, and scattered, and refracted on all sides.

But, whatever, it'd worked out in the end, right.

John had landed in England, with a hold full of replacement parts in the middle of the night, GMT.

All three of his brothers had been stood in the shadow of Thunderbird Two's great belly; the odd line-up bathed in the soft glow of under lights as they watched his slow decent from the skies.

There'd been no rushing hugs or cries of joyful reunion like you saw in the movies, but a slight nod from Scott and a handshake from Gordon. Virgil went as far as to sweep a hand to his back, patting him like a favourite dog, but that was all. Then it was to business.

He'd joined his brothers in catching a couple of hours rest, which he'd been surprised to find came easily after all of the drama of the past day or so. Then, all four of them (Gordon included) had risen as the sun did, getting to work early on repairs.

The short period of laid-down sleep appeared to have done the second-youngest Tracy more than a world of good. Not only was the aquanaut moving freely again, but also he'd managed to scrounge together a breakfast of sorts (a mug of instant coffee each, six power bars, three sachets of boil-in-the-bag chicken noodles and a packet of dried banana slices) having searched through the little 'kitchenette' aboard.

Okay, so if they'd been desperate they could have ventured in the Creighton-Ward Manor for food, but it'd seemed rude to be there, when Penelope wasn't.

Thus, improvised breakfast done with, the brothers had worked the remainder of the morning on fixing up Two; loading parts onto hoversleds to ferry them across from the leviathan's smaller sister.

Scott and Virgil'd used the outside access points at the rear of the craft to climb out to the tail ramjets, whilst John and Gordon had laboured over the main left engine and VTOL jet.

As lunchtime began to approach, and Gordon had threatened to 'have a look in his locker' and see what he could find that was 'maybe edible' the repairs were finished up. Two wasn't completely mended, nor without the odd dent and scorch mark, but she was once again air-worthy and filled the wind-stirred earth with a quiet rumbling of vast, inconceivable power.

The four brothers had come together, in the aft crew cabin, grease smeared but contented. Gordon'd flopped straight down on to a pull-down bunk, stretching his legs out in front of him, before Virgil had shifted him over, none to politely.

Stood, leant up against a work surface, Scott'd asked,

"So, I reckon we put it to a vote. Stay here and brave lunch courtesy of Gordon's locker or head home now?"

Immediately Virgil had elected for home, followed soon after by Gordon. John, leant up against the doorway, had shrugged, then said,

"Home it is then, I guess. Scott, you want to take her back?" The astronaut had jerked a thumb in the direction of Thunderbird One outside. "I'll ride back with these two."

And so it had gone.

Scott had waited, hovering above with the grace and poise of a beautifully speckled dragonfly, until Virgil had brought Thunderbird Two up into the nearly cloudless sky. Then, together the two crafts, unique to the world below, had flown back Island-wards.

They'd returned to Tracy Island as the sun was rising, and John'd been struggling to find peace since, despite all of the good news the day was bringing.

That morning (about the same time as he and three of his brothers had landed), the police department had released Alan, with their deepest, sincerest apologies for his mistaken detention. He was officially 'not guilty' and free to go, as new evidence had appeared in his favour.

Martha Bailey, a 21-year old Computer Sciences graduate, had loaded up her computer as she got to her office, to find the CCTV footage she'd been working on, suddenly easy to clean up and fix. She'd sat, chewing on the end of a pencil, and watched the video clip, before immediately dialling up her supervisor with the unexpected news.

The whole case had been growing into some high profile, media attraction (it couldn't be helped with the large American Super Cars following, and the Tracy name being dragged through it all), and everyone involved was much relieved for hard evidence to have appeared.

Well, everyone except Richard Lanning. IPD had launched a large-scale manhunt the moment he'd been identified from the video recordings.

There'd been no news yet of his arrest, but well, it was still only hours after they'd started searching, and there was always the soothing contentment of knowing that when the police department pulled up Lanning's past history, they were going to find a whole stack more of incriminating traces.

Distracting and fragmenting his thoughts, off towards the upper edges of the beach, something stirred drawing the pale blond astronaut's attention.

Alan.

The teenager (often everyone had to keep reminding themselves that Alan really was still _that_ young) was sloping down towards the waterfront. He was still wearing the trousers and shirt he'd donned earlier for the required press conference he'd been made to attend, but the tie had been discarded and the collar loosened some time before.

Figuring maybe his youngest brother had sought him out, John waited till Alan reached him before saying,

"You alright, then?"

The rising moon was casting strange shadows and reflections across the water, distorted and fractured. Alan kept his line of sight firmly planted on the sand gumming his shoes as he spoke.

"Thanks."

Slightly bemused, John continued to walk, but replied softly,

"That answer doesn't really match the question I asked, Al."

Shrugging, Alan stopped suddenly, turning out towards the ocean, looking past his taller brother's silhouetted form. It was a long moment before Alan decided to reply.

"Tag is going to be alright, apparently. He's got a concussion the size of Texas, some cracked ribs and a broken leg, but he'll be fine so the doctors say. I'm going to try and see if Dad'll let me go and visit him in a couple of weeks when life's calmed down a bit. I imagine any chance of me rejoining the race circuit's gone and totally disappeared now though."

"Maybe. You'd have to speak to him about that. But what I do know is _you're_ still dodging the question."

Reaching out, John squeezed his brother's shoulder gently, pulling Alan round to face him.

"I'm fine, John. And you know I am, since it's because of you I'm here."

Raising a slim eyebrow, the astronaut's mouth quirked slightly, almost too rapidly to catch, upwards in a smile.

"What makes you think I had anything to do with your release? Maybe you just got too much for the good police-folk of Indianapolis to handle."

All of a sudden, Alan found himself grinning. Reaching out to place a hand on his brother's forearm, to stop him turning away again, said Alan,

"Whatever, huh? You keep that as your story if you want, Johnny. For you… I'll not tell. As they say, your secret is safe with me, but, all the same, just in case you ever meet the guy responsible for saving me, _and_ my family, I'll give you this so you can pass it on to him."

Reaching out, Alan took his older brother's hand, clasping it tightly within his own.

"Thank you."


End file.
